


A Hard Day's Night

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Jousting, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Medieval Lite, Murder, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:52:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 83,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3721054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way to London to compete in the most dangerous jousting tournament known in all of England, Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge saves the life of Sherlock, a servant being drowned for the offence of "talking too much". When Sir John takes Sherlock with him to London, love and murder complicate the journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Get…your….filthy hands…off… me.  Swine!”

Horse hooves pounding the dirt path muffled the words traveling from the river.  Unable to see the water through the thicket, Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge reined in his mare and, holding up a hand, signaled his men to do the same. 

“Idiots!”

Yes, was a man that Sir John heard.  Not an exceedingly courteous man, to be sure, but a man nonetheless. A man in distress. 

Despite the disparity of height between the horse and his own diminutive stature, Sir John’s sense of urgency necessitated he act with haste.  Refusing to wait for one of his squires to assist his dismount, he swung a leg over his horse and leapt down, his feet dropping to the ground with a thud. 

“Peasant cows!”

Pushing aside brush and low tree limbs so dense he did not see the river until he nearly stumbled into it, Sir John stood on the bank, feet planted wide.  A man, appearing to be no more than five and twenty years of age, thrashed in the water fighting to free himself, arms manacled by the beefy hands of two men on either side of him.  Beefy hands that not only restrained him, but struggled to pull their prisoner under water.  His pale chest gleaming under the sole ray of sunlight cutting through the mid-evening clouds, he was bare all the way down to the water, his hip bones peeking out of the gentle current washing around him.

“Hark!”  Sir John called out, the faces of the two captors whipping toward him, startled.  “Do you require assistance to help him out of the water?  I have with me several fine men who can aide you.”  Shaking his head in wonderment, “Such bravery, risking your own lives to save him.” 

“Get away!  This be none of your concern!”  The more robust of the two captors snarled back, his barreled chest heaving as he struggled with a slippery arm resisting with a strength that was mystifying given its size.

“Let.  Go.  I command you!”  The Naked One bellowed, this time his shout stirring a flock of blackbirds from the treetops, their flight dark against the already gloomy sky. 

A smile curved at the side of Sir John’s mouth.  Here be a man who by all appearances was under threat of death, yet he did not cry for help.  He did not call out to the stranger on the bank to save him.  No, he had the courage, the arrogance…the bollocks, to act as if he were the one in control of the situation, though nothing was farther from the truth.

“Kind sir, do _you_ wish assistance?  Or shall I be on my way and leave you to your…games?”  Sir John called out to the Naked One.

Just before the Naked One’s head was shoved beneath the surface, he shot Sir John a glare so scathing, so deathly, the Knight shivered, knowing he had never seen one so hateful.  And many had he seen in his 27 years.

“Cedric, Aldus,” Sir John called his squires to him, “See to it the poor devil is freed.  Though he may well deserve the destiny currently thrust upon him, I cannot bear to witness the murder of any man.”  Undoubtedly this cruel method of punishment was not countenanced the local government.  Hanging, yes.  Drowning, no. 

Sir John watched Cedric and Aldus wade into the water, their swords drawn long before they reached the trio.  None appeared to be, but if anyone in the water were armed, he was confident they would be no match for such fine swordsmen.  Cedric and Aldus had served him for years, bringing no fewer than five men to their ends, their reflexes unable to match the speed and precision of his men’s skillfulness. 

“I told you, this ain’t none o’ your concern,” the burly one groused as the squires approached.  But less stupid than he looked, he and his companion dropped the Naked One from their grips and slogged out of the water, cursing under their breaths, “meddler” and “bastard”. 

“I told you I would defeat you!  Idiots!  Run before I catch up with you.  I will rip your fingernails out one by one and watch your fingers rot until you die a painful death. Ha!”  Waiting until his captors were well onto the riverbank, the Naked One trudged through the water, each step through the increasingly shallow water revealing more flesh.

Amused by the Naked One’s bravado when he had been at a grave disadvantage, Sir John’s humour transformed to stupor as a completely unclothed body came fully into view.  He had already seen the Naked One’s chest.  Whilst not ostentatiously muscular, it held a quiet strength.  But now Sir John saw the slim, tapered waist, legs as tall as oak trees helmed by firm thighs, and a…bounteous…manhood that revealed themselves.  Never before had his eyes been graced by such a fine specimen of masculinity. 

Sir John cleared his throat, snapping himself out of his reverie lest anyone notice anything amiss with him.  “Aldus, fetch him something with which to shield his nakedness,” he said, now careful his eyes didn’t stray any further down than the Naked One’s neck.  His long, elegant, milky white…no, his chin.  Yes, yes, his chin, that is far enough.

“What is your name, I pray ask you.”  Much to his dismay, Sir John’s eyes flicked down from the stranger’s face for the briefest of moments and back up again.  Only through years of practice was he able to keep his face impassive, his groan silent, as he thanked Almighty God that thick robes covered his groin.

“Sherlock,” the Naked One spat, glaring down the length of his nose at Sir John, a full head shorter than him.  “I am the son of a Lord and there will be a handsome reward for my return.” 

A Lord’s son!  Quite the imagination this Sherlock has, Sir John thought, listening as the others broke into guffaws and sniggers. 

“These…” Sherlock continued, ignoring the mockery.  “… _cretins_ kidnapped me when I was but a small child and have imprisoned me for these many years since.”

“If your father will pay so handsomely for your return, then why do these men not take the purse gladly?  I have little doubt they could buy a small farm were the reward so generous.”

A bundle thrust into his arms, Sherlock pulled the robe over his head and tightened the belt around his waist.   

“They say I lie.  They say they have never heard of a reward, but I believe they wait for my value to rise.  When my father dies and it is time for me to take his place, I will be worth an even larger ransom, one large enough to sustain their family for many generations to come.  This is only one of many ways in which they wear their ignorance on their lice-infested sleeves.  They could have been rich all these years, yet they gamble it away on the possibility there will be more.  Whilst they toil in the fields.   Fools.”

“And who is your father?”  Sir John did not believe Sherlock’s assertion that he was the son of a Lord.  News of a kidnapping would have traveled the lands with lightning speed, especially were a handsome reward involved.  But he saw Sherlock believed his own words.  Before Sherlock spoke of his absent father, light and anger radiated from his pale blue eyes, after, their intensity dimmed.  No stranger to loss of a loved one, Sir John felt compassion, even if Sherlock’s loss were nothing more than the daydreams of a lowly servant.

“This also I do not know.  But I remember as a child, before I was taken, I lived in a castle.  Mounds of food covered the tables, and many people every day came to kneel and kiss my father’s ring.  Surely someone such as this is powerful, with riches great enough to seek out his son.  I cannot believe otherwise.”

Sir John shifted on his feet, unsettled by the strong faith this man had in his heritage.  So convicted was Sherlock in his version of his past, against his better judgment belief stirred in Sir John, knowing pity would be a far more sensible approach to such declarations.

Perhaps he could find out more of the story from the men who had restrained him in the river.  Pivoting to face them, “Your names?” he asked. 

Glaring at Sir John, his forehead furrowed in a permanent frown, the larger of the two replied.  “This here’s Henry,” he said, nodding toward his associate.  “Me name’s Merek.”

“And what quarrel do you have with Sherlock?  Did he steal your cow?  Couple with your wife?  Do tell me what offence he committed that is so great you wish to kill him.”

“He talked!”  Merek’s indignation burst from him.  The frustration of having the filthy wanker rescued and then to have to stand and listen to his gibberish was just too much to bear. 

“He _talked_?”  Sir John’s eyes widened in astonishment.  “Oh, yes, I see why such a grievance would so agitate you.  Cedric, off with his head!” he commanded, waving the back of his hand toward Sherlock.

Cedric squinted in Sir John’s direction. Though he had never known the Knight to be violent outside of the confines of his profession save for the need to protect an innocent life, it was not his place to override a command.  He would do as instructed.  Cedric drew his sword, raising his arms to swing its razor-sharp blade at the neck of man whose only response to a second death threat in one day was to roll his eyes.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Sir John said, exasperated that Cedric didn’t know him well enough to know his words had been jest.  “No man deserves to die for talking.”

“You wouldn’t be so certain was you to spend any time with him,” Merek argued.  “He hardly every shuts up, and he _knows_ things.  Things he couldn’t know weren’t he evil.”  He eyed Sherlock warily, as if the man he had just tried to drown were about to cast a spell, dropping him dead on the spot. 

“He declares you talk too much and know too much.  What do you say to this?” Sir John faced Sherlock, curious to know what he could have said that was so objectionable. 

 “Can words be too many or wrong when they are the truth?”  Sherlock riddled. 

“What kind of truth?”

“His wife says she goes to fetch water, yet she lays down with the farmer across the meadow.”

 “Why you…!” Merek lunged toward Sherlock, but Cedric’s swift foot cocked out in front of his ankle, sending him sprawling to the ground.  His air knocked out of him, Merek grunted and dragged himself upright.   

Unruffled by the interruption, Sir John nodded his head, encouraging Sherlock to continue. 

“It should take her but one hour of the clock to walk to the river and return with buckets of water, yet many times she is gone no less than 2, sometimes 3, returning with sprigs of hay tangled in her hair and grass stains on her skirt. Ask her husband how many times she returned with an empty bucket,” Sherlock sneered.

Glowering, Merek leaned in toward Sherlock, his shoulders hunched in threat.  “She tripped and fell, arse.” 

“’Tripped and fell’, hmmm.  This must make her very happy indeed, for these are the only times she sings.  I had never heard her so happy when coupling with you.  The burlap you call a ‘wall’ muffles nothing.  You are played for a fool and deserve no less than to be cuckolded.”

“Humming don’t prove nothin’.”  Merek tried to charge Sherlock again, but this time instead of a foot he was held back by a sword tip pointing at his heart.  “You ain’t nothin’ but a servant, and servants keep their holes _shut.”_  Spittle flew from his mouth in his rage. 

“Be this true?”  Sir John asked, Sherlock’s quick nod telling him it was.  “There could be many explanations for her condition, but prove to me you have this special power to know things you have not seen.  Tell me something about me.” Sir John watched Sherlock’s eyes roam over every bit of him, from the tips of his shoes to the top of his hat, blue eyes shifting about until Sir John had been thoroughly examined.  Just as he was becoming uncomfortable under the penetrating inspection, Sherlock spoke.

“You are a widower.  Your marriage was not for love, but you were happy.  No, not happy, content.”  Sherlock’s eyes passed over Sir John a second time, a cursory look, but no less intent.  “But you lived a lie, something was missing.  Something you thought you could never have.  Something you still think you can never have.” 

Whilst Sherlock talked, Sir John raised his hand to the tiny ring dangling from the chain around his neck, memories flooding him.  It had been an arranged marriage, one planned by his parents when he was but a small boy.  His wife, Eda, had been a kind woman.  They had not been in love, but they grew to share a strong bond, a bond that resulted in the joy of a pregnancy.  When Eda died in childbirth these five years ago, he had been bereft.  Not only for the loss of his companion, but for the child who died with her.  His first son.  Perhaps his only son, for he had since found no suitable wife.

“How can you know these things?” Sir John asked.

Sherlock lifted his brows and shrugged, seeming to have nothing more to say.  But in a tone so quiet Sir John almost didn’t hear him, Sherlock said, “It’s a pity about the boy.”

Sir John dropped his hand from the ring, stunned.  How?   _How_ could he know about his son?  What Sherlock said about his wife could have been a measured guess.  Most men his age had married.  And that he was far from any city or town from whence came a Knight could have told him he no longer had a wife.  But to know that he had had a child, a son, and that he no longer lived, that was far more than a guess.

Deep in thought, Sir John found Merek’s interruption unwelcome.

“He’s evil, I say.  We were takin’ care of the varmint until you interrupted us.  Gave him a good whippin’, we did.  And we can finish drowning him, won’t be no hardship-”

“Quiet,” Sir John, barked. And for the first time he noticed the raw, red bands circling the flesh of Sherlock’s wrists and ankles. 

“Servant?  You _shackled_ him and treated him as a slave?  I would not put my dog in shackles, let alone a man.”  

“Turn around,” Sir John said to Sherlock as he moved toward him, a hard knot forming in his stomach as he realised why the man had walked out of the water so gingerly.  It had not been only because the water was cold or that he wore no shoes to shield his feet from the sharp rocks.  The man had been in pain.

Sherlock didn’t move except to straighten himself, his face growing pale with the effort.

“Please.  I will not hurt you,” Sir John said softly.

Meeting Sir John’s unflinching gaze, Sherlock saw something he wasn’t sure he had ever seen before.  And though he did not know what it was, he turned his back to Sir John, instinctively knowing he was putting himself in hands that would not hurt him.

Sir John pulled a sleeve down, baring Sherlock’s shoulder and half of his back. Rage ignited in him, a rage as angry as the welts he saw before him.  Many were crimson, their ridges protruding thickly along the skin.  Others were open wounds, blood cresting at their edges.  Ragged white scars crossed underneath the new wounds, evidence of previous whippings.  Seeing all he needed to see, Sir John lifted the robe and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder, remorseful for the low hiss that accompanied Sherlock’s flinching shoulders; he had promised not to hurt him. 

Though it was a different expression than the one before, when Sir John’s eyes met his again, Sherlock knew what he saw.  Fury.  But why? 

“Where’s the whip?”  Sir John demanded of Merek. 

“I says it again.  What I do wit my Lord’s servant aint’ none o’ your business.”

“Where.  Is.  The.  Whip?”  Sir John ground out, any patience he had for this buffoon gone when he saw proof of the barbaric violence on Sherlock’s back.

Merek nodded to Henry who went to retrieve the whip. Finding it, he handed it to Sir John, his eyes downcast.  He’d had enough trouble for one day.

Sir John gripped the handle with one hand, the fingers of the other inching along the thong.  Blood and minute chunks of flesh collected on his fingertips, and seeming to have found what he looked for, with a crisp flick of his wrist he snapped the weapon at Merek, hitting his bare foot. 

“Shite!” Merek cried, jerking his foot back in pain, almost toppling over.   “What the bloody ‘ell?”

“If this is how you treat your Lord’s _property_ …”  Sir John reached for the pouch at his belt and, loosening the drawstring, drew out several coins, throwing them at his feet. 

“Those are in payment of the servant; give them to your Lord.  Should he have issue with my purchase, I will be in London before the leaves turn.”  Tossing another coin down, “And that is for your trouble.  Now be gone, or you will see a fate far worse than a sore toe.”

Looking around to see if anyone would stop him, Merek picked up the coins.

“Be gone!” Sir John growled.  “Now!”

Without looking back, Merek and Henry scuttled down the path toward town, Merek half hopping, half trotting on his injured toe.

Sir John inhaled deeply, calming himself.  Looking up into the sky, the sun had moved closer to the horizon since he and his men had stopped; nighttime drew near.

Turning to Sherlock, Sir John said, “You may go, but it be best you remain with us, at least through the night.  We will protect you lest those heathens return to finish their plan.  And you need medicine for your wounds.  But it is your choice to go or stay; you are a free man.” 

Sherlock focused on the dirt below him, and when he lifted his head, his gaze settled on Sir John. “The price you paid for me is far less than my worth and my Lord is certain to search for me.  As well, you underestimate those ‘heathens’; they will hunt me down.  They will bring many men, and if I go with you, they will kill you and your men, too. No, it is best I be off on my own.”

Sir John wanted to laugh, but seeing the solemnity on Sherlock’s face, held back.  The thought of common servants thinking themselves so brave and cunning they could get the better of him and his men was one of the most ridiculous notions he had heard in many seasons; he was not called Sir John the Courageous on a whim.  He had earned it.  Many battles he had fought and won, with one of the lowest mortality rates of any Knight in the land.  No, he was not afraid.   

He felt it unwise to send an unarmed man off on his own, but he had bought Sherlock’s freedom and that meant giving him the freedom to do as he chose.  To do as one chose, one needed tools. This time when Sir John reached for his purse, he first unlatched his belt to slide it free.  Holding it out to Sherlock, its weight felt heavy in his hand. 

“Take this, you will need it.”  And reaching for his knife, he removed it and its sheath, holding them out beside the purse.

Sherlock backed away as if Sir John held a viper. “I do not want your money.”  

“Pride will not keep you safe.  These do not guarantee you will be, but they will be more helpful than an empty hand and starving belly.  Take them.”  Watching deliberation play across Sherlock’s face, he wondered what could possess a man to be so obstinate when his very life might be in danger.

Wordlessly, Sherlock reached out and, clutching the purse and the knife, let them hang down at his sides. 

“Godspeed,” Sir John said, unsure if he imagined the flicker he saw in Sherlock’s eyes. 

Walking back to where his squires readied the horses for their departure, Sir John looked back and saw only an empty space where he and Sherlock had just stood. And he couldn’t help but think how odd it was that the thought of never seeing him again left a hollow space in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Rumbles filled the air. The sounds were not of thunder, for the skies had not opened, but the snores of the squire who shared Sir John's tent. Cedric. Yet the noise was not why the knight could not sleep.

In his life, Sir John had fought many battles. Battles putting his life at risk, pitting man against man. Battles he fought against worthy opponents or sworn enemies, situations for which he had trained his entire life. But not tonight. Tonight he found himself in a battle against himself. Was a rarity he doubted any decision, questioned any action of his own; were he in the habit of doing so, he would have long ago been dead. Indecision and regret were for the weak of mind and spirit.

He could not shake the thought he could have done something more. Why, why had he allowed Sherlock to leave on his own? Yes, he had bought his freedom, but what meant freedom if he roamed the forests alone with nothing more than a sturdy knife to protect himself? What other choice had he had? He wondered. Shackle his feet and hands as had those miscreants so he could not leave?

Rolling over, Sir John sought to soothe his troubled mind by finding a more comfortable position. It did not work. Sherlock was like no other servant the Knight had encountered. Quick of mind. An educated manner of speech. A man with otherworldly powers.

A man who stirred within his body a hunger to which he did not want to admit.

Burrowing his head further under his wool blanket, Sir John's breath warmed the chilled air.

And what of his name? What manner of name be "Sherlock"? A birth name or one given him by his kidnappers? Do not be ridiculous, John, there was no kidnapping. No riches or nobility. They were the product of the fertile imagination of a bored servant. Was not uncommon to dream of becoming something greater, yet rarely was one so bold as to believe it already true. Perhaps Sherlock was mad. That is it! Hmmmm, no. No madness lay inside the eyes as clear as rain; insanity would not have allowed Sherlock to so accurately appraise his past merely by looking at him.

"Cedric." Sir John threw his blankets off, the cool, damp air biting exposed skin as he lit a candle. The snores rumbled on. Impatient, Sir John leaned over and shook the sleeping man. "Cedric."

With a final snort Cedric stirred. "Sir?" He blinked in Sir John's direction, the soft light of the candle too harsh for his eyes.

"Arise and saddle two horses. Be quick about it."

"Only two horses? Are the others not coming?" Cedric said, already bending down for his shoes and nudging them on his feet. He yawned, stretching himself awake before he stood.

"On second thought, three horses. Now go."

Sir John swept aside the tent flap and strode to the tent where his other two squires slept, huddled together keeping themselves warm. Rousing Aldus, he bid him join Cedric in his task.

"So early, Sir? Tis not yet light. Do you not wish to wait until the sun reaches the sky?" Aldus asked.

"Light or non, we must set forth. If all goes well you soon be back in your bed." Sir John picked up an outer garment lying nearby and a pair of shoes that looked to be the right size and tossed them on Aldus' prone form. "Now, up with you."

Chafing at the interminable amount of time it took his groggy squires to saddle the horses, Sir John stepped over to help. Cinching the straps on his mare, he pushed aside his misgivings. Was the mission on which he and his men were about to embark foolhardy? Heading off in the middle of the night in search of a man who meant nothing to him? A servant. But doubt gnawed at him that Sherlock had arrived safely at the town, purchasing himself a warm, dry room for the night and a hot meal. Surely that was what he had done. Had he not?

Finished with his saddle, he stepped onto Cedric's laced hands and hoisted himself atop his mare. Patting his horse's neck, he whispered, "Come on, Jocelyn, let us find him, see he has come to no harm. I shall not rest until we do."

* * *

 

They walked the horses, riding in silence, the only sounds around them the occasional hoot of an owl and the rushing river, the howl of a lonely wolf. The path littered with large stones invisible in the dark, they dared not move more quickly for fear of hobbling one of their animals. Or, Sir John silently added, trampling an already injured man.

Scanning the empty path before them as they drew farther and farther away from their camp, disappointment filled Sir John; he would not see Sherlock again. Ready to tell his men it was time to turn back, he spotted a figure up ahead, its steps faltering. Yes, was Sherlock. Sir John's heart stuttered. He thought how weak Sherlock must be to have taken so long to travel such a short distance. Picking up Jocelyn's pace until he reached him, Sir John measured her pace with Sherlock.

"Twould you accept a helping hand from a friend?" The Knight asked, resting his arm on the saddle horn, his tone as companionable as if they did no more than stroll in a garden. He did not want to push Sherlock too hard, push him away. Sherlock had already once refused his offer to travel with them; he had little intention of allowing him to refuse again. After all here be a man barely able to move. Should Sherlock stumble and fall he would be vulnerable to attack by a wild beast or unkind human, knife or no knife in his hand. What little Sir John had learned of this man in the short time they had spent together, Sir John knew he was a man of dignity and pride. Of high intellect.  But common sense? It appeared that was another matter.

Without lifting his bowed head, Sherlock said, "Friend? I have no friends. Go away. I told you it best I be alone." He trudged on, each step of his feet laboured as he sought purchase on the uneven ground.

Such determination. After brief consideration, Sir John amended his thought. No, such foolishness.

"Alone you shall be then, but if it be alright with you, I, too, will travel alone. Tis pure coincidence tis beside you."

Sir John looked down at Sherlock's bare feet. Clod-brain, he admonished himself. Why had he not thought to give the poor man shoes? Stopping Jocelyn, Sir John removed his shoes and, again riding up alongside Sherlock, held them out. To be sure they would be too small for such a tall man, but crumpled toes would be preferable to wearing no shoes at all.

When Sherlock stopped, Sir John thought it to accept his offering, but instead of reaching out for the shoes, Sherlock swayed, dropping to his knees.

"Cedric, Aldus," Sir John called out, adding under his breath "obstinate bastard" as he dismounted.

"Not...obstinate-" Sherlock grated out.

"Yes. Yes, obstinate you are, like an ass unwilling to do something for his benefit. Cedric, aid me in setting him with Aldus on his horse."

Placing a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder lest he pitch face first on the ground, Sir John asked, "Thinkest you can stand with help, at least until we get you on the horse?" Not waiting for a response, Sir John nodded for Aldus to bring his horse closer, hooking an arm underneath one of Sherlock's as Cedric did the same with the other.

"Leave me be. You will be killed-" Sherlock protested, his voice little more than a whisper.

"And why should you care about that, eh?" Sir John asked, his question met with silence. "We will take you to camp with us where you can rest. It will do you no good to spend the night lying on the damp earth."

Sir John and Cedric lifted Sherlock to unsteady feet, wrestling him upward while Aldus pulled Sherlock up from where he sat on his horse. As they lifted him, Sir John grimaced at the sight of Sherlock's back, long streaks of blood stained the robe.

* * *

 

Sir John was not surprised Sherlock fainted by the time they reached camp. Torture, blood loss, exhaustion. These would be enough to bring down even the hardiest man.

"Carefully," Sir John cautioned his men as they lowered Sherlock's unconscious body from the horse. "Support his head." Sherlock would be in pain enough when he awoke; he did not want to add to his misery.

"Lay him on my bed; he will rest comfortably there as my bed has much padding." Sideways glances met Sir John's words. He saw the questions in their eyes but ignored them, instead hurrying into the dark in search of herbs packed in with the other supplies. As he returned to the tent, hushed voices carried out to him.

"... lets a mere servant lie on his bed. Did you see the way he looked at him when he came out of the river? His eyes could not have been so big had a succulent roast sat before him." Aldus’ words dripped with contempt.

"Tis not right we speak of him this way,” Cedric said, so quiet Sir John had trouble making out the words. “Even if he does not hear us, he is our-"

"Why should we be woken from sleep to search for him? I tell you why. The rumours say Sir John lies with men. Indeed, he must have a great desire for this heathen to leave his bed at such an ungodly hour."

Sir John's cheeks flamed with embarrassment at the insinuations. Never had he known anything but respect and loyalty from his men. Never had he been anything but kind and fair to them. And to know others had spoken of him in such a way... Clearing his throat, he lifted his chin and entered the tent.

Sherlock lay with his back to him, his arms laying askew where they had dropped when the bloodied robe was removed and tossed to the side. Any anger and embarrassment Sir John had felt when he heard his squires talking now forgotten, he covered Sherlock up to his waist with a blanket. Crouching down, in the dim light he looked closer at the wounds, relieved to see most were crusted with dried blood, only a couple openly bled. It must have been weariness and not blood loss that had caused him to faint.

"I will have Eduard heat water with which to wash his injuries. Clean his wounds and apply the herbs," Sir John told Cedric, handing him a small pouch. "Put any extra blanket on him and go to sleep; the sun will soon come up. I will sleep on Aldus’ bed."

Taking a last brief look at the man on his bed, Sir John left the tent.

* * *

 

It was not until just after the sun crested the horizon that Sir John fell asleep; he could not stop thinking about Sherlock. About the exchange between Cedric and Aldus. About the fact he had been alone far too long; he was too young to live the rest of his life without a mate, a wife. A child. The thoughts swirled in his mind until he was so tired none of it made sense. His limbs grew heavy, his mind dull, and finally, blissfully, he fell asleep…

"Get...your hands off...me...! Swine!"

The familiar cry jarred Sir John awake. Scrambling to his feet, he flew in the direction of the shouting, his heart pounding. Had Merek and Henry found Sherlock? Had they overpowered his squires with the intent to once again try to drown the defenceless servant?

Racing into the tent, breathless though the distance had been short, Sir John’s eyes swept the small area. Three men he saw, each friend, not foe. Sherlock sat up on the bed, naked except for a robe lying across his lap; his face suffused with ire. Cedric and Aldus stood back from where Sherlock glared at them.

"What goes on here?" Sir John demanded.

"He has woken and will not allow us to touch him. And he hit me," Aldus whinged, rubbing his thigh and pointing at Sherlock.

Crossing his arms, Sir John took in Sherlock's pinked cheeks, the wild hair, the fire that burned in those (Blue? Green?) eyes.

"Ahhh, I see you have your spirits back," Sir John chuckled, pleased that Sherlock appeared far healthier than the last time he saw him. "Why lash out? They mean you no harm. They apply the herbs for your own good so that you can mend."

"Dolts. The herbs would heal no one."

"Have you a better idea?" Sir John looked away as Sherlock picked up the clean robe from his lap and lifted it over his head. To the Knight's chagrin, he was not fast enough, for he glimpsed a milky white belly where it met tight dark curls. Giving Sherlock enough time to cover himself, when he looked back, Sherlock's eyes met his, a hint of a smile curving at the side of his mouth. Shite. Does _everyone_ think I'm a homosexual? I am _not_ a homosexual.

"Are you listening?" Sherlock snapped.

"What? Yes, of course, I am," Sir John lied. "Go on. What do you think is better than the herbs?"

"As I was saying," Sherlock paused, assuring he had the Knight's attention. "There lives a woman deep in the bowels of town who mixes a special potion. The townspeople call her a witch because of its miraculous powers. She is old, forty years or more, her family killed by the plague-"

"Ha!" Aldus erupted. "If this potion you speak of be so miraculous why did she not save her family? Maybe it is what killed them-"

"Shut up!" Sherlock's words silencing the squire, he turned back to Sir John.

"As the story goes, she was too late to save her family, not perfecting the concoction until it be too late to save anyone but her and a few others in the town. She does not sell the potion, giving it only to the few who do not ridicule her. It is her way of repaying kindnesses to those who are kind to her."

"And why would she give it to you? You are nothing but-"

"Aldus!" That time Sir John silenced him.

"Let us pack up camp and ready the horses." Cedrus grabbed Aldus' arm and dragged him toward the tent opening.

The back of Cedric's head to him, Sir John could only imagine the stern look baring down on Aldus. This was why Cedric was his favoured squire. Not because he had been with him the longest time. Not for his nimble mind and fearsome strength. But because he provided guidance to the younger squires, helping them to see the error of their ways when their youthful energy hindered their sound judgment.

The squires gone, Sir John returned his attention to Sherlock. "You trust this woman?"

"Trust..." Sherlock pondered the question. "I do not believe she will harm me."

Unsure if he should ask his next question, Sir John's curiosity compelled him.

"Say you she gives the potion only to those who are kind to her. She will give it to you?" He asked, leaving the question he most wanted to ask unspoken but hopefully understood. Many qualities he had already seen in Sherlock, but he was not so certain kindness was one of them.

Sherlock's unwavering eyes met Sir John's. "Yes."

Sir John waited for more, an explanation, a colourful story, but nothing followed. For a man who suffered a near drowning because he "talked too much", he could be stubbornly reticent.

"All right, the squires will soon have everything readied to leave. Would you...are you..." Becoming tongue tied, Sir John wondered what it was that flustered him. In his life, he had spoken to kings and archbishops with confidence, ease, and yet a servant made him stammer.

"Would you like..." He tried again, his tongue sliding across his lips as his muddled mind cast about for words to end his sentence.

"Idiot."

Affronted, Sir John opened his mouth to object to being spoken to in such a way, when he saw the quirk at Sherlock's mouth reappear. Brazen bastard, he thought, unable to stifle a mirroring smile.

His smile gone as quick as it appeared, Sherlock's brow furrowed. He inspected the bottom of his foot, picking at the clumps of dirt hiding painful scrapes made by the stones on which he had walked barefooted. "As much of an obstinate ass as you think I be, I am not so unwise as to think I will get far on these. I will accept your offer to take me to town with you."

Sir John's mouth dropped open. "How did you-"

Waving away Sir John's question, Sherlock covered himself with a blanket and stood, grimacing as his feet hit the ground. "We must be on our way. I haven't all day."

Flummoxed by Sherlock's audacity, Sir John nonetheless said, "Yes. Yes, of course. Very well, then, we will go find this woman of whom you speak."

\-------------------------------

During their ride, the squires chatted quietly amongst themselves. Sherlock rode alone on Aldus' horse, with Aldus, a pout on his face, riding with Cedric. At the lead, when Sir John looked back to ensure everyone stayed together, he couldn't help but admire the servant's form. Despite his injuries, he held himself as if he had ridden all his life, comfortable with the strong beast between his legs.

The clouds from the day before had not fulfilled their promise of rain; a strong wind had blown them away, leaving a sky full of bright yellow light.

What a glorious day. Sir John couldn't remember a recent day he had felt so, relaxed, so happy. Humming a cheerful tune, he made a conscious decision not to think why that might be.

At least, he thought it a glorious day until he led them around the bend.

Lined along the side of the road, in various states of decomposition, were near a dozen bodies hanging from the trees. As many times as he had seen corpses in his life, it brought shivers to Sir John's warm skin to see these. It took little for a man to find himself on the wrong side of a rope: attempted murder, theft of church alms...defamation of a man's wife.

Jocelyn protested as Sir John yanked her reign, circling her back to ride up beside Sherlock. "I think it prudent we disguise you. The town is not far, and those men who attacked you are bound to still be thirsty for your blood. You can be certain if they come for you, they will not be alone.

"Eduard," he said to the tall squire who led the supply horses, "find some of your clothes for him. No doubt their length will be lacking, but you are the nearest in size. Something with a hood to shield his face."

Sherlock snorted. "I will not hide; I have done nothing wrong. In any case, they should be back at the manor; today is not a market day."

"Tis not a risk I will take, nor should you," Sir John countered, his eyes dark. "They be not concerned with what ‘should or should not be’, else they would not have taken your life into their hands with such arrogance. I do not trust them not to wish you to join these poor souls." He followed Sherlock's eyes to the lifeless bodies.

All hint of derision gone, Sherlock looked back at Sir John. "As you wish."

"All right, then," Sir John nodded. "Let us make you a squire."

\----------------------

"See, I told you." Triumphant, Aldus turned back to Cedric from where he watched the Knight oversee Sherlock's transformation. "Why would he go to such trouble did he not desire him? Why should he care whether a servant lives or dies? It is lust I tell you. Take a look at his crotch when he returns, I bet you a farthing he will not be sitting quite so comfortably in his saddle."

"Me thinks it is you who is fascinated by Sherlock, after all, he is very pretty," Cedric said, laughing at the indignant expression blooming on Aldus’ face. "Why else would you be so concerned about Sir John’s desires? Jealous, are you? Afraid Sir John will taste him first?"

"Me? Jealous? What a ridiculous...I would never..." Aldus spluttered. "God strike me dead if I have ever put a hand on a man." With a quick look at the sky, he crossed himself, fearful he had tread into blasphemous territory. "I am set to be married when we return home, to a maiden from a fine family."

"That means nothing. A marital bed sayeth nothing about the heart. Or the cock-"

At this Aldus swung at Cedric, nearly unbalancing himself from his horse, but Cedric ducked out of the way of the flying fist.

"Ahh, that one hit too close, did it?" Over his laughter, Cedric heard horse hooves draw near. "Here they come. We can talk more about your predilections, later."

"My predi..." Aldus started to spit out, but stopped himself as Sir John approached. He had no desire to explain their conversation. The last time he had been in trouble with the Knight his "correction" had been to chop two tall trees into kindling. The act left blisters on his hands, and arms too sore to lift for a many days. Most upsetting, his arms and hands had been useless to pleasure himself. No, he did not want to suffer such agony again.

As Sir John trotted Jocelyn past them, "Come", he said. "Cedric, Aldus, ride on either side of me. Sherlock, Eduard, take the rear. I do not know if we will find trouble, but I do not want you to be engaged in a fight unless necessary." He looked back, seeking Sherlock's face. To assure himself Sherlock would follow his lead; his life may depend on it. But all he saw was a dark shadow where his face should be, the thick hood shrouding it.

Turning Jocelyn around and kicking his heels into her flanks, Sir John headed south. Swords at the ready and eyes alert, none of the men spoke as they rode the rest of the way into town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my bumbling. I have to say it's a challenge trying to write in this time period. I know there are those of you reading this who know far more than I about the medieval period, so please know all pointers are welcome!
> 
> Kisses to my Beta. You are a Saint!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am blessed to have the best beta there is. You are wonderful Burning_Up_A_Sun, thank you!

Sherlock chafed under the hood. Coarse where it met exposed skin, he fidgeted under the weight and heat of it, trying to find some measure of comfort. His normal wont would have been to forgo it, or at least to remove it as quickly as possible; hoods were to protect oneself from the harsh elements. But the day was not inclement; the sun dappled the tree leaves with its bright rays, broad swaths of light streaming down between branches.

He knew well why he wore the hood, and twas not because of the weather.

Neither twas it out of fear of that Merek and Henry would recognise him, the reason John had asked him wear it. Though rats the fools may be, as long as Sherlock accompanied John and his men, his would-be murderers twould not show their faces, whether alone or with a hundred men. Their cast were furtive and underhanded, preferring to wreak their destruction away from prying eyes. He was safe.  

Sherlock also knew he did not hide himself to study the others unguarded; that he could accomplish with but a glance. Cedric: orphan; pure of body; scar on left hand - fell into a fire at the age of 6; has night terrors which leave his bed soaked with sweat and urine. Aldus: fearful of demons; the man who calls himself his father be his uncle; beds any willing creature, whether woman, man, or goat. Eduard: loyal; tends large rose gardens when at home; does not wish to be a knight, but obediently concedes to the life he is destined. John: Ahhh, John. A complex man not easily read. Yes, faithful and true to his calling, carries a sorrow from which he will never be free, but there is so much Sherlock cannot discern. So much more he wants to know.

No, Sherlock wore the hood for one reason and one reason only. John had asked him to.

On the surface twas simple enough a reason. Asked, and done. What was not so clear to Sherlock was _why_ John would have such influence over him. “Difficult,” “stubborn,” “froward”. These were the ways in which he was most often described when anyone bothered speak of him. Twas not _his_ fault others did not think for themselves. What use was a brain but to _think?_ Because his body was trapped in servitude did not mean anyone owned his mind. His body would do as told, his mind could not, would not.

Did he shield his face because John made a request, not a demand? Twas an unusual circumstance. As easily as he recalled the minutest detail, Sherlock did not remember the last time he had been given a choice. Had been given the freedom to, without repercussion, decide upon and do what he so chose.

His attention captured by the sway of John’s body as it undulated in tandem with his horse’s gait, Sherlock watched his hips gently rock back and forth. Watched the squared shoulders (Injury to the left shoulder, two, no three winters ago. Likely in battle.), with one hand holding a slack rein, the other resting atop his sword handle. A body coiled for action, yet relaxed. What a fascinating contradiction, Sherlock marveled. But more interesting, just as John was contradictory in the way he held himself, he was also contradictory in deed; one moment John’s touch had been gentle as he viewed Sherlock’s wounds, the next he had inflicted pain on Merek.

Was that the reason John had a strange hold over him, causing him to follow without protest?

Perhaps he had a fever. Bringing a hand to his forehead, Sherlock felt his skin. Beads of water rested there, but twas no more than one could expect given a covered brow on a temperate day.  And he was not lightheaded or feeling ill, his only complaint the thin stripes of muted pain running down his back.

Sherlock’s mind raced, grasping at small bits of information at the edges of his memories, trying to piece them together. Twas not an experience familiar to him, to be intrigued by any one person. But in a flash not unlike a bolt of lightning on a hot summer night, it came to him. Twas John’s _compassion_ which intrigued him so.

Compassion was an emotion with which Sherlock was unfamiliar. He had had, on occasion, kindnesses bestowed upon him. These he counted on one hand. But this man, this knight, had twice in one day saved his life. Bewildering. Why would such a man have been bothered? And it twould have been far easier to let Merek and Henry drown him, pretending he had not heard Sherlock’s cries, riding on. He had not needed to intercede, to hand him money and a weapon.

So deeply absorbed was he in his thoughts, Sherlock’s horse would have butted the flank of John’s had the horse not had the good sense to stop when it did. Jolted back to his surroundings, Sherlock saw they had reached the bridge crossing into town. They had arrived unscathed, no sign of Merek and Henry. Ha! Just as he thought, they were too cowardly to take on Sir John and his squires.

The pontage paid by John, horse hooves resounded on the bridge’s planked surface as they crossed the bridge into Leith. A town of about 700 souls, Leith would likely double in size in the next day, market day, but as it was early yet, the town was not crowded. The stench of the latrines they had passed outside the town gate still hung heavily in the air under his hood, stifling him. Sherlock would wait until they passed into town to throw it off. He need to _breathe._

“John,” Sherlock called out, pushing the hood off his head. He sucked in air, glad to be relieved of the confinement.

Three riders stopped abruptly, their horses whinnying. Three heads whipped toward him, sharp intakes of breath audible.

“ _What_? Tis his name, is it not?” Sherlock snapped at them.

Eduard leaned over to him and, whispering, said, “His name be _Sir_ John. You should not be so bold; tis not for you to address him with such familiarity.”

Annoyed by the reproach, Sherlock retorted, “’Sir’ be a title, not a name. And he is not _my_ ‘sir’, nor my Lord or master. I have no cause to kneel at his feet. John,” he called again. “I wish a word with you.”

The fourth rider stopped and, observing Sherlock with a bemused expression, said, “Yes, tis my name. What need you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock eased himself from his horse, concealing as well he could the agony of his feet touching the ground, unable to disguise a flinch as his tender back stretched in his descent. His gaze sweeping across the faces of three squires before settling back on John, he said, “In private.”

“Whatever you say to me, you are free to say in front of my men. They be discreet.”

Sherlock snorted. Discreet. At the word “private” Aldus cocked his ear toward them, vying for a juicy morsel of information. Cedric adopted the air of one who pretended a wall shielded the conversation, as if somehow Sherlock were invisible and silent. Eduard was the only one of the three who seemed unconcerned with what was to be said. Perchance he was to be trusted, but in Sherlock’s experience, no one was.

Except, perhaps, John.

No, he would not speak in front of John’s men. His lips forming a thin line, Sherlock refused to speak.

Sir John sighed and led Sherlock several strides away from the small group until they were far enough away Sherlock felt he could speak freely.

“The inn at which you choose to stay is unsuitable. You must reconsider.”  

“Why, pray tell?”

Distracted by deep blue eyes looking at him inquisitively, at long, blonde eyelashes softly framing them, Sherlock remembered he was supposed to speak. “I cannot say.”

“If you have no reason, then there we shall stay.” When Sherlock offered no explanation, John started to walk away. Stopped by an urgent “No!” he turned back to Sherlock.

“No? Give me good cause and perhaps I will reconsider.”

“The innkeeper empties his bladder into the ale. Since none but visitors drink it, they know not why they be sick. He thinks he is clever, increasing his profits without having to work for them.” The lie fell smoothly out of Sherlock’s mouth, his only alternative being to tell John why to stay at that particular inn would be impossible for him.

“And how do you know this? I cannot imagine a servant has call to stay at the local inn,” Sir John said, a chuckle forming at the back of his throat.

Sherlock bristled, his eyes growing cold as he stared down at John.

“No, I mean you no offence,” Sir John said, the words rushing out of his mouth. He reached out to touch Sherlock’s arm, but dropped it when Sherlock shifted, broadening the space between them. “I meant, uh, no one would need to stay at an inn so close to where they live. _Anyone._ Servant or nobleman.”

Mollified by the apparent sincerity of John’s explanation, Sherlock relaxed. “I have stayed at the inn, and were I to do so again, there may be…complications.” He locked his gaze with John’s, daring to be challenged.

“Complications?”

“Complications.”

“Ahh, I see,” John said, his head bobbing up and down. “No, I do not see,” he admitted, the bobbing changing into a shake.

“Well, tis not your concern. I…I…” Sherlock grappled for his next words. “I thank you. For everything.” Sherlock turned and walked away, unaware the hollow space in his chest twas the same as John had felt the day before. The one that said it could only be filled by the one they were leaving behind.

“Wait.”

Before he became aware they did so, Sherlock’s feet stopped mid-stride, his mind curious, his heart hopeful, to hear what John had to say.

“Perhaps you should stay with us til we reach London,” John said. “I know reputable households to which I could recommend you; households where servants are not under threat of such a reckoning as you have had to endure.”

“London,” Sherlock breathed. He returned to where he had stood, his face alight with the possibilities. Perhaps in London he would find someone who has word of a king or a nobleman who had “misplaced” a son. Perhaps he would be rejoined with his family.  “Yes,” he answered, “Yes.” Taken aback at the intensity he heard in his voice, he wondered how much twas due to the prospect of spending more time in the company of this contradictory man.

“All right, then, tis settled. We shall find another inn at which to stay for the night and afterward go find your balm. Tomorrow, when the market opens, we will purchase supplies for the rest of our journey. And,” John’s eyes traveled the length of Sherlock’s long body.

Sherlock grew restless under John’s search. At what did he look? Sherlock wondered. And why did he take so long?

“We will purchase you suitable clothing. Tis not right for a ‘squire’ to be fitted so poorly,” John finished.

Ahhh, twas what John had been doing, Sherlock thought. But then why had he  blushed?

* * *

 

“Eduard, hurry up!” Aldus whinged. “Get your fat arse out of the chair; off to the alehouse, we are.” With both hands he slapped playfully at Eduard’s face, skipping out of reach as Eduard swatted back.

“Fat arse? We’ll see who has a ‘fat arse’. It’s not my horse’s back which sways because she can’t hold me up.” Rising, Eduard waddled toward the door. Puffing out his cheeks, he failed in his effort to mimic Aldus, his face too thin and long.

“Might,” Aldus declared proudly, squeezing his curled bicep. “It be called _might_ , Eduard. Something about which you would not know. You can barely hold up your sword you’re so weak.”

_Noise_

Sitting on a bed of the rented room the men shared, Sherlock blocked out the exchange. While he did not look directly at him, every sense focused on John. Fluid and strong, John’s body appeared more powerful than his compact stature would attest to as he carried wood from the corner of the room, tossing it in the hearth. Twas warm enough outside, but the inside the old inn twas damp and musty, as if the walls had stored the cool air for centuries, releasing it for its new guests.

“Are you coming with us, Sir?” Cedric asked John as the trio of squires headed for door, rolling his eyes as his friends persisted in their childish play, punching and slapping at each other.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to John’s face as he awaited his answer. John had said he would accompany him to the old woman’s home. He would not change his mind, would he?

Pinching his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought, John’s gaze flitted from Cedric to Sherlock, and back again. “No, go without me. But do not drink late, a long day be ahead of us tomorrow. And mind Aldus, will you. His young body does not handle strong ale well. I have no wish to be woken in the middle of the night to his retching.”

“Yes, Sir,” Cedric said, herding Eduard and Aldus out the door. “Come lads.”

As the squires’ footsteps clattered down the stairs, the room grew quiet but for the butcher calling to passersby in the street, the sound of John’s heels hitting the floor as he gathered dry twigs, adding them to the kindling. Lighting a patch of straw he clutched in his hand, he threw it on the wood in the hearth and knelt down to puff it into a small blaze. Dusting his knees off as he rose, with a smile he faced Sherlock.

“The wood is moist and will take time to build a good fire,” John said. “Let us find the woman of whom you speak, the one with the balm. Know you where she lives? Are you strong enough to walk?” Concern stole the smile from his face.

There it be again. Compassion. Anxious to escape the unusual feelings welling up inside and the way the room closed in on him as he became aware it was just the two of them, alone, Sherlock stood and put on his cloak. “Tis nothing I have not suffered before,” he said, practically dashing to the door in his haste to leave his confusion behind him.

Sherlock led them through town, confident in their route though it was long since he had been to the old woman’s house. Silently navigating the muddied streets, dirt sullied their shoes, splashed onto their hose. Passing a farrier, Sherlock spotted several faces he had seen before at the Lord’s house. He felt safe in the knowledge they would not recognise him in the squire clothing, the hood back over his head. Twas just as well, he thought, they be of no interest to him. Quite extraordinarily, he reflected, the only person he found of interest at that moment was the man walking with him.

“She lives this way,” Sherlock said, slowing his long strides as he realised he left the shorter man behind. Turning a corner onto a pathway so narrow even were he and John moving at the same pace, twas not enough room for them to walk side by side. The house fronts mere steps apart from each other, a gulley in the path carrying the stench of urine and excrement.

Sherlock slowed his steps further as he sought the building housing the old woman. Spotting her through an open doorway as she hunched over a basin, her hand felt along the table on which it sat. Her fingers bumping into a plate, she grasped it and passed a wet rag over it.

Tilting her ear toward the door, she called out, “Who be there? Colin, tis thee? Do not stand there. Come in, come in.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned around.

Sherlock took in the eyes which could not see him. In the years since he had last laid eyes upon her, her blue in her eyes was no longer visible. Where they had before only been partially obscured by clouds, they now were completely white.

“Dame, good day. Tis Sherlock,” he said, hesitant to take a step forward. Would he still be welcome? To his own ear his voice sounded deeper, softer than was usual. He pulled his hood down as a courtesy, though twould be of no difference to her.

Her hands stilled on the apron, lips parting in surprise until she found her voice. “Sherlock! Oh my lord! Come here, boy,” she said, dropping her apron and waving him to her. “Let me see you! It has been too long, it has been that. And who tis this ‘Dame’? Never have I known you to be so formal, no need to start today. Now, come here.” A smile spread across her face as she opened her arms to be filled by the “boy”.

Stepping to her and wrapping his arms around her in a firm hug, her arms circled him. “Laila, has been too long,” Sherlock said, pulling her closer.

“Oh my, tis good to see you, so good.” After several long moment she pulled away, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “Oh look at me, what a mess.” Finished sniffling, she asked, “Have you someone with you? Two sets of feet I heard. Who be you?” She voiced her last question in John’s direction, finding Sherlock’s arm and hooking her own around it.

Sherlock gave a small laugh. “Tis a…, tis my…,” he started, stumbling over his words.

“I am a friend of Sherlock’s, Dame, Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge. Tis a pleasure to meet you. Your ‘boy’ speaks highly of you.”

“I twould be surpised if he…a Knight?!” With a cry Laila fell to her knee, her full skirt billowing as she descended. “Forgive me,” she exclaimed, reaching for the loose strands of hair which fell into her face, tucking them back into their bun.

John reached for her arm, helping her up. “Please, arise. There be no cause to dirty yourself on my account. I am but a humble servant.”

“Yea, a servant of _royalty._ Oh, my, oh my,” she flustered. “Could I please you with a cup of ale? Tis fresh. My cupboards are empty, but if you wait until Colin comes by, I will have something for you to eat.”

“Tis kind of you to offer, but I am not hungry,” John said, a rumbling belly belying his words. “Ale would be fine, just fine.”

Born of years of routine, with ease Laila found a jug of ale, filling a mazer full of the liquid and holding it out to John.

“My thanks, good woman,” John said, taking the mazer from her.

“Here be one for you, too, Sherlock. Tell me, what brings you here after all this time? And how be it you found yourself with a knight? Let me see how you are.”

Sherlock leaned down, touching his face to Laila’s upraised fingers, allowing her to caress them along his cheek, his nose. Over his eyes. “Ahh, you are as beautiful as ever,” she said. “Still as fresh as a babe.” Satisfied with what she had seen, Laila dropped her hand, asking again, “What brings you here? I do not complain, but it has been long.”

Resuming his full height, Sherlock told her, “I come asking a favour. I had a mishap and am in need of your balm. That is, if you have some still.”

“Oh! What happened? Are you hurt? Show me.” Laila reached out to touch him again, but Sherlock stepped back.

“Tis nothing, no more than a scratch; I fell onto a root and it gouged me. But they are,” he cleared his throat, glancing at John, “Tis deep.” Scanning the room, he did not see the brass jug. He knew she had kept it on the shelf over the washbasin, but twas long ago.

Laila clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Always in trouble, always in trouble. You weren’t running from the law, were you?” She asked as she knelt down and reached under the table for a box, a groan escaping her. “My knees. Ain’t what they used to be.” Standing back up she took a cloth-covered jug out of the box and held out to where John stood. “Stubborn as always, he be. Put it on him will you, kind sir? If I may be so bold to ask.”

“No. I will take it with me.” Sherlock did not want to risk someone coming to the house and seeing his wounds. It would be unusual for a squire to be injured so, causing suspicions of their origins. Draining his mazer of ale, he opened the jug and poured thick ointment into it. When he had enough he re-covered the jug, putting it back where Laila stored it. With a quick peck on Laila’s cheek, “We shall return your mazer tomorrow. Time to go, John.” Sherlock pivoted toward the door.

“Sherlock, where be your manners!” Laila gasped. “Tis _Sir_ John.”

“Tis all right, Dame,” John said, laughing. “Sherlock be a spirited young man, but I am not easily offended.”

Laila laughed with him. “Yes, a strong-willed one he is, but I cannot be angry with him, he is like my own blood. You will come back with him tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Yes, he will,” Sherlock answered for him as he stepped out of the house. “Coming, _Sir_ John?”

“In time, _Sir_ Sherlock,” John mocked playfully. “First let me thank your friend.

Leaving Laila waving to them from the doorway as they left, Sherlock heard her talking to herself. It sounded as if she said, “I think he’s found his match, he has.” He wondered about whom she spoke.

* * *

 

By the time John and Sherlock returned to the inn, the sun had hidden behind early afternoon clouds. The glazed window in their room was too small and thick to be useful, but the fire pierced the shadows, the light from its flames flickering on the walls around them.  

Walking to a bed, Sherlock sat on its edge, tossing clothes to the side as he bared himself to the waist. “Here,” he said. His back to John, he held out the mazer.

“Here, what?”

Jiggling the mazer, “Put it on me.” When the mazer twas not lifted from his hand, he turned to see John looking at him, his lips and brow pinched.

“Uh, one of the squires will do it when they return,” John said, his pale pink tongue slipping out of his mouth to lick his lips, quickly darting back inside.

“No,” Sherlock said, thrusting the mazer back toward John. “I do not want their hands on me.” Seeing John did not move, he tried a different approach. As John had done with him, perhaps if he gave him a choice… “Will you do this for me?”

When John failed to reach for the mazer, “Please?”

“I suppose _tis_ best it be applied soon...” John said, sounding unconvinced as his voice trailed off, but he pulled up a chair and took the cup from Sherlock. Dipping fingers into the lotion, he painted a trail of the thick liquid down a lashmark the length of Sherlock’s back.

At the touch, Sherlock arched, a hiss leaving his mouth.

The finger paused mid-stroke. “I do not mean to hurt you.”

“It cannot be helped. Now, go on. I will not break.”

“Of what is this ‘miracle’ balm made?”

Sherlock let his eyes fall shut as John resumed his ministrations, this time his touch lighter than before. As John established a rhythm, the sting of the balm faded away, the gentle brush of his fingers almost soothing. Sherlock relaxed, letting his head drift down until his chin touched his chest, his shoulders opening back up.

“Garlic, onion, wine, oxgall.”

“What?! Cow’s bile?!”

Sherlock smiled as John recoiled from him. “Do not worry, if it cannot kill a cow it cannot kill you. Perhaps had it been available to you when you were injured you would not still have trouble with your shoulder.”

The chair scraped the floor, moving closer, and Sherlock felt the heat of John’s legs as they drew in to him, nearly touching his hips.

“How you know such things, about my injury? My son?” John’s voice caught at the mention of his son. “I do not know, but you are amazing, absolutely amazing.”

“Any fool who observed would know these things, but most do not see that at which they look.”

“What a peculiar man you are, but, I cannot disagree with you. Most are too preoccupied with their circumstances to pay heed to that of others.”

The men grew quiet, the fire’s crackles filling the void as John worked until all of Sherlock’s wounds were covered.

“Would you like, would you mind if I, if I rubbed your shoulders? A physician who tended to me after my injury said it has healing properties. Tis not as magical as oxgall,” John said, chuckling as he wiped his hands on a rag, “but it does ease one’s discomfort, and I believe it will help you to rest. That you need.”

Sherlock hesitated. As much as he did not like to be touched, letting Laila do so because of her blindness and John only out of necessity, he found he liked being touched by him. Very much.

“If it will please you,” he said, affecting an air of nonchalance.

“ _Thank_ you, my liege.” John bit back a laugh. “But tis not about my pleasure, I think it will help you. If you do not like it, or it hurts, tell me and I will stop. Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded his assent. Hands rested on him, at first tentative as they smoothed along his skin, growing bolder until fingers gently prodded him, kneading the meat around his bones. His upper body undulated under the strong hands; he could not remember the last time he felt so comfortable, so at ease with himself. Or with anyone else. His body slumped as he nodded into sleep, only to jerk himself upright.

His voice hushed, John said, “Yes, I think tis enough; tis time for you to rest. Lay down and I will put a blanket over you.”

“Not tired. Tis not yet night.”

“Night or not, you need to heal and to heal you need to rest. Now do not argue, I will be but a moment.”

Sherlock lay down on the bed, his mind growing hazy, his body limp. A blanket covering him, he sank into the bed, too weary to protest the straws from the mattress poking into him. His last conscious thoughts before he fell asleep were of a hand stroking his hair, a low voice whispering, “Right the old woman twas. Thou be beautiful. So beautiful…”

* * *

 

Sherlock awoke disoriented; he was not in the servants’ quarters. Sitting up, he took in the darkened room, the only light coming from the dying fire. He was alone. From outside he heard laughter, rowdy men and women who clearly had imbibed too much. Coming fully awake he arose and, shuffling to the chamber pot, relieved himself.

Where was John?

Sitting back down on the bed, Sherlock saw John’s purse where it laid on the table. So not off to dinner, then. Curious to know if he might find something of interest, something to tell him more about this unusual man, he picked it and fingered through it. Nothing but coins and the chain with from which the infant ring dangled. What could this tell him? Why had John removed the chain? As he pondered, heavy footsteps approached. Dropping the chain back in the purse, he tightened the drawstring and set the purse back where he had found it. Following scuffles and a thud, the door flew open with such force it bounced against the wall.

A man’s body dangling between them, Cedric and Aldus maneuvered into the room, laying him on the bed across from where Sherlock sat.

“Sir John!” Aldus cried frantically, too panicked to realise Sir John twas not in the room. On the verge of tears, he sobbed, “Eduard is dead!”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have changed the rating from M to E, and have added a Dubious Consent tag.
> 
> Oh, dear Burning_Up_A_Sun, what power you have over me! I sit with baited breathe as I wait for you to beta my chapters. Will my heart soar? Or will it burst? The answer is in your hands! Thank you for your loving care! xoxo
> 
> Devisama, bless you for your encouragement :-)

“Oy, mate! Be careful will ya? You ain’t the only one needs to use ‘em.”

John shifted his eyes to where he grabbed the prostitute’s breast, her tunic shoved up almost to her neck. So urgent was his need to wipe clean his mind of Sherlock, he had not realised how rough he had become. He loosed his hold but did not let go; he was not finished. Staring at her womanhood he stroked himself, unbidden visions of the most beautiful person he had ever seen interrupting his concentration. _Shite_. _Why does this Sherlock bewitch me so_? Never had he had such difficulty pleasuring himself, and he was too inebriated to concern himself with pleasuring the woman who lay below him. It did not matter, her wares were but a commodity.

He would have liked to blame his lack of arousal on the strong ale he had drank, but he knew twas not the problem. Twas the vexing servant who rattled him so.

“Turn over.” John slurred his words, his tongue thick.

“ _That’s_ how it be, eh? That’ll cost ya extra.”

“I have money enough. I will bring ‘round another coin on the morrow.”

“Eh, that’s what ya all say.” The wench pushed John away and covered herself. “Oh! Me be a _knight_ and I has more riches than you’ll ever see in a lifetime. Payment be yours _tomorrow_! Now do as I say, wench!” She mocked the words, her voice high and reedy. “I heard that too many times and _I_ says, ‘no money, no arse.’ Thems the rules. Now be off with ya unless you think you can finish the job the _right_ way. Or be you not man enough?” She punctuated her unkind comment with a laugh.

John sat back on his heels, wobbly but still upright. _Christ._ _How did he get himself in this position?_ Here he was, in the corner of a stable, the smell of the horses and their dung clogging his nostrils and with a dirty wench who he twould not have given a second look at were he not desperate to ease this _pain_ in his groin. He should have taken care of his problem by himself, twould have been much less trouble. But he needed to touch someone, to feel a warm body beneath him even if twasn’t the warm body he wanted. The warm body he needed. He had thought if he closed his eyes he could forget who he was with, but it had not worked. Her body twas not right and he could not get hard enough. Could not release the tightness in his groin. Standing up, John pushed his half-hard cock into his breeches as he pulled them up, more frustrated than when he had stumbled upon the wench.

Only the morning before his life had been uncomplicated, his biggest concern traveling to London to compete in the jousting tournament. But now? A servant named Sherlock had turned his world on its head. John’s entire being craved him, not just his body, but his heart, too. About to belt his tunic with the rope, he heard his name.

“John.”

Groaning, John squeezed his eyes shut. Not only could he not rid the image of the man’s face from his mind, there be that voice as thick and rich as cream, taunting him.

“ _John._ ” The voice beseeched him sharper that time. John looked around and there he stood. Sherlock.

Heat flamed John’s cheeks. “How did you find me?” His fingers fumbling with the rope, he tied a loose knot and settled his hands on his hips. “Why be you here?”

“Twas easy enough to find you; you left your purse behind.”

“And so? I could have gone to supper.” John challenged, unsure if he were up to listening to how Sherlock determined his whereabouts. Twas as if were a tracked animal, but he _twas_ curious…

“And _so_ , why twould you leave your purse if you be off to buy a meal? You were afraid of being robbed, so twas obvious you were coming to a less, shall I say, savory part of town.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the woman lazing on the bed of straw, a predatory smile on her face as she looked up at him.

“Thank you, but no,” Sherlock said, returning his attention to John.

“You left the chain and ring behind, as well. You were not afraid of losing the ring. It has no monetary value, tis not gold.”

Frowning, John’s hand went to his neck, his fingers caressing the absent ring.  “Not gold?”

“Oh, do not look like that,” Sherlock said, dismissing John’s dismay with a wave of his hand. “Tis the sentiment you value. You did not want to taint his memory by acting in such an unchivalrous manner. My guess is that associating with prostitutes tis not to be found in the Knight’s code of conduct.” Sherlock snorted.

John stared at Sherlock whilst he talked. Twas not only his beauty which stirred him so, but, the extraordinary mental agility which he possessed. His thoughts straying, John could not help but wonder at the servant’s agility in other more _physical_ activities.

“For me to answer your second question, as to why I be here, we must remove ourselves.” Sherlock tipped his head toward the woman.

“Say whatever ya’s need t’say, I be leavin’. Ain’t no more work for me here, not that there were. Good thing I make ‘em pay aforehand.” Finished arranging her clothing, the prostitute scoffed at John as she left the stable.

With the woman gone, John asked, “Now what have you to say? It best be important, because…”

But whatever he was about to say got lost as Sherlock stepped so close to him he felt his breath brush his face. Sherlock stared into his eyes with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. And with no warning, Sherlock took him by his shoulders and pushed him back, causing him to stumble the few steps until his back collided with a thud into the stable wall behind him. Making quick work of untying the rope around John’s waist and jacking his breeches to his ankles, Sherlock dropped to his knees, taking John’s semi-soft member into his mouth.

So unexpected and rapid were Sherlock’s movements, John did not resist. Again, he twould have liked to blame the alcohol, but he knew he could not. He could not deny twas what he had wanted, what he had waited for, since the moment Sherlock stepped out of the river.

Still, twas not seemly…

“What are you doing?” John’s feeble protest deepened into a breathy moan. “Chri-” Throwing a palm flat against the wall, his other sought out the mass of Sherlock’s hair, tightening his fingers onto locks that curled around them.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He should not allow Sherlock ( _Or_ any _man, John!)_ to do this. Not in the stable. Not anywhere. But all rational thought fled his mind, his back arching, pushing himself into the wet warmth that gave no pause in its pursuit to pleasure him. Plush lips gripped him, pulling up the length of his shaft to suck at his tip, to roll that clever tongue around it until he thought he might go mad. And just when John thought he could bear no more, the lips slid back down until they swallowed him whole, again, and again. Whatever thin thread of resistance he had sped from his body, and John thrust into Sherlock’s mouth.

_Where tis my air? Where did it. Where did it fucking go?_ The answer mattered not to John, for were he to die at that very moment, he knew he could not ask for a more rapturous way to leave this life.  

His scrotum cupped and squeezed with a firm, insistent hand that brought him to the precipice he so desired, John tried to free himself from the mouth that enslaved him. He pushed at Sherlock’s head, desirous to save himself the further shame of spilling his seed inside that beautiful opening. But instead of letting go, Sherlock clasped a buttock in each hand, pulling his John’s hips closer, the dark head moving up and down with swift, unyielding precision.

“Sherlock….oh God, oh God, _yes_.” John wrapped his hand in Sherlock’s hair again, now afraid to let go. Afraid that if he did he would crumple to the ground and all the exquisite agony would be for naught. His groin tightening, his thrusts came in staccatos, short and hard. And clenching his buttocks, with a final buck he released himself, wave after wave of ecstasy coursing through and out of him. _Jesus fucking Christ._

John slumped against the wall, his chest heaving as he begged his legs to hold him upright. _What the hell just happened_? His vision hazy, he watched Sherlock rise and wipe his mouth, a delicate burp erupting behind his hand.

“Christ, Sherlock.” John pulled up his breeches, his legs still aquiver. His voice just as unstable.

“Twas not to your liking? I have had no complaints before, in fact-” As if he’d said too much, Sherlock clamped his mouth shut.

“Not to my _liking_? Tis not the point, Sherlock.”                

“No, tis not the point, though tis quite apparent you did. Why did I do it, John? Because tis something else on which you need to focus. Something other than...” Jutting out his chin, Sherlock nodded in the direction of John’s groin. “Twas but a means to an end.”

“Focus? Focus on what?” John shifted his hips, not sure Sherlock had been successful in his goal.

“Eduard is dead.”

John blinked, the words from of Sherlock’s mouth at odds with his dispassionate tone. Wondering just how many ales he _had_ imbibed, he thought perhaps he heard Sherlock wrong.

“What do you mean, ‘Eduard is dead’? Surely you cannot mean-”

“He stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, he no longer-.”

“Yes, yes, I know of what it means. But Eduard? Dead? That makes no sense.”

“Sensical or not, tis true. Your men brought him to the inn. He-”

Without listening to the rest of what Sherlock had to say, John rushed out of the stable, Sherlock on his heels.

* * *

 

Several steps behind, Sherlock followed John back the inn. Not because he could not keep apace, but because he needed to think. Twas not Eduard he thought about, for of what import twas a man he knew not? No, twas John who occupied his thoughts. Twas the flush of happiness it had brought to Sherlock to please him so. When he had taken John into his mouth he had had no thought of personal gratification.

It had not been the first time he had committed such an act. Before, it had been an act of servitude at the behest of a greedy elder servant, a man who took advantage of his youth and sold his “commodities” to traveling noblemen. Twas why he had not wanted to stay at the inn John had first chosen. It had been where he had “worked” and where he had honed his skills- his body engaged, his thoughts far away.  

But this time twas different. This time a thrill ran through his body. This time he had wanted to know how hands and a mouth, _John’s_ hands and mouth, would have felt on him. Sherlock’s face and neck flushed and he was grateful for the dark as he thought back to the night before, when John touched him, soothing his body. Never had he known such care, such tenderness. And it came to him that just as he had fallen asleep someone had called him “beautiful”. John. _John_ had called him “beautiful”…

Sherlock’s preoccupation did not last long, for when he and John arrived back at the inn a heavy pall hung over the room. Aldus sat at the edge of the bed next to Eduard’s body, rocking himself. His cloak off, he dragged an arm across his nose, wiping it. No longer did tears wet his face, but they welled up in his eyes, threatening to fall. Cedric, his back to the room, poked a stick into the hearth, sparks popping out as the wood shifted. It seemed more a need to occupy himself than any real need to stoke the fire, for twas already fully ablaze.

Weariness etched creases into the corners of John’s eyes, sagged his limbs, as he walked over to where Eduard lay and hovered a hand above his mouth. Twas unnecessary, Sherlock thought. No one could survive the loss of so much blood. Blood that had soaked Eduard’s clothes and seeped into the white bedding below him, turning it crimson.

“Be you well? Were you hurt?” Though John directed his questions at both squires, only Cedric answered.

“No, we were not harmed.” Cedric turned from the fire, the blaze from the hearth and that in his eyes indistinguishable. “Though had we been there to defend him, twould not be Eduard who is dead!” He poked at the fire again, jabbing at the innocent logs.

“What happened? Why twas Eduard alone?” While he spoke, John bared Eduard’s chest to reveal a gash from which blood had stopped flowing.

“Tis my fault! Eduard is dead because of me!” Aldus’ cry pierced the room.

Startled, John dropped the bloody clothing and spun toward Aldus. “What do you mean twas your fault?”

“I should have gone with him, I would have protected him. And now he is dead!”

“Tis not your fault, fool!” Cedric scolded Aldus, explaining to John, “Eduard needed to relieve himself. But when he did not come back I went looking for him. He was, he was lying in a pool of his own blood and I knew he was dead. Twas nothing I could do.” Quickly averting his eyes, he looked as if he, too, might cry.

John hunched down, looking up into Aldus’ face, reassuring him as if he were the young child he looked to be. “Tis not your fault. Tis no one’s fault but the person who did this.”

Whilst John spoke with Aldus, Sherlock went to the body and, leaning over to get a closer look at the mortal wound, inspected the gash with his finger. When he finished he rolled the body over, first onto one side, then to the other.

“What are you doing?! Leave him be, you have no right to touch him!” Aldus lunged at Sherlock, his flight blocked by John’s out-slung arm that wrapped around his torso.

“Where be his knife?” Sherlock glance swept across the floor from the door to the bed, before his gaze rested on John.

“Tis not here?” John released Aldus, who collapsed back onto himself, exhausted from his outbursts.

“His knife. Where is his knife?” Sherlock patted Eduard’s hips. “Cedric? Aldus? Did he not have it with him?”

“He did.” Cedric stood up, looking at the floor as had Sherlock, avoiding the blood covered man on the bed.   “Tis not here?”

“Why does everyone keep asking ‘tis not here, tis not here’?   I would not ask were it here, would I?!”

“What think you, Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock steepled his hands at his chin and paced the room. “The edges of the wound are smooth, not jagged. Hence, twas stabbed with a knife. The wound tis deep; I was able to insert my finger all the way.” Sherlock held out a bloody middle finger, demonstrating the puncture’s depth, before wiping it on his sleeve.

“Sherlock! You didn’t-”

“His fingernails are intact, no tears, and he has no injuries on his hands, or marks anywhere else that I can see. He knew his murderer, or at least he twas not in fear enough he thought to defend himself. Most likely the attacker used Eduards’ knife.”

“Do you or Eduard know anyone in Leith?” Sherlock rounded on Cedric who watched him with wide-eyed fascination. Sighing, Sherlock muttered under his breath “Tedious. Why tis everyone shocked when someone uses their _brain_?”

“No. No one but who is in this room.”

“Where was Eduard killed? Did you meet anyone who would have followed him? Someone who he would have thought to be a friendly face?”

“We talked to several people, men and women both. No one who seemed untoward. Besides, Eduard did nothing to bring attention to himself; he did not bother anyone. We drank a few mazers, then Eduard went in search of a lavatory. Oh! But twas this noble, he looked to be - twas more friendly than the rest, but we never saw him before tonight.”

At this last, Sherlock’s eyes bore into Cedric. “Who was he? What twas his name?”

“I do not know, I cannot remember. Greg? Garth? Twas akin to that.”

“Friendly, you say. Of what did you speak?”

“Twas nothing. Twas, uhm…” Cedric’s cheeks pinked.

“Twas what?”  

“We talked of your name, of how uncommon tis it.”

“My _name_? How did you come to talk about my name?”

Cedric grimaced at the sharpness in Sherlock’s tone and went to sit in the chair farthest from him and John.

“Well, we were, Eduard and Aldus and I, we were talking about you. About Sir John’s obvious, uh, interest in you, and Aldus pretended to be Sir John, talking to Eduard as if he were you, and he was telling him, uhm…” Cedric wetted his lips with his tongue and darted a look at John.

His face tight, John gave Cedric a sharp nod.

“Aldus, he said to Eduard…” Cedric raised the pitch of his voice in imitation of a female’s, “‘Sherlock, thou art as beautiful as a rose on a dewy morn. May I hold thy hand?’”

“What then?” Sherlock slipped a look at John, but John remained focused on Cedric.

“Go on, Cedric,” John’s soft voice urged him. “Tell us the rest; we need to know what happened.”

“Twas when Gareth, yes, Gareth, that twas his name. Twas when Gareth came from a nearby table to sit with us and said he had overheard your name,” Cedric told Sherlock. “He thought it unusual, said he wanted to know from where such a name came. And that was when Eduard excused himself.”

“Did this Gareth ask about me? Did he follow Eduard?” Sherlock drew nearer to Cedric, every sense focused on the squire.

“He did leave after a bit, said he was to meet someone. And yes, he did try to ask more about you. I remember kicking Aldus under the table when he started to explain who you were; I did not think twas right. How were we to know if he had anything to do with the men who tried to kill you at the river? He didn’t need to know where you were.”

Hearing all he needed to at the moment, Sherlock hurried toward the door and threw back over his shoulder, “John, come.”

* * *

 

“Ahhh, I see ya come back to see Eva.” The alehouse keeper welcomed Sherlock with a smile. “She wondered where you disappeared to. Said she liked talkin’ to ya, wondered why ya ran off so soon. But can’t say as I’m surprised you did. Quite a bit of drink you had.”

Sherlock looked at John. _About what does he talk?_

Just as baffled, John shrugged. _I do not know._

“Who am I?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well ain’t you that young fella was here with your friends a bit back? I’m happy to see ya look a lot less peaked than when you left. Another drink?” Picking up a dirty cloth, the keeper wiped a mug and filled it with ale.

“Sherlock.” John tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve, pulling him out of earshot.

“What?”

“He thinks you be Eduard.”                                          

“Do not be ridiculous, I look nothing like him.”

“But you _do_ , Sherlock. Taller, you are, but, lord, how have I not noticed the likeness?” John appraised Sherlock’s face. “You have the same dark, curly hair and high cheekbones, and you be just as thin. The man, this Gareth, twas asking about you. Aldus called him ‘Sherlock’. Do you not remember?”

“Of course, I remember. But why would someone want to kill _me_?”

With a grim chortle, John answered. “It does seem you have a way of getting on the wrong side of people rather quickly. Think. Who else besides Marek and Henry have you angered?”

“Tis too many to count, but tis not as if they would not know who I am.”

“Maybe Merek and Henry sent him?”

“They be too frugal to pay anyone, and too thirsty for my blood to leave the task to others. They would want the joy of doing it themselves. You have seen what they can do.”

His face growing pale, John turned away.

* * *

 

John did his best to concentrate on the serious matter at hand as he and Sherlock walked the deserted path to where Cedric found Eduard’s body. Though Eduard had only served with him a fortnight, he had been John’s responsibility.   But the vision of Sherlock when they left the barn consumed him, the flushed cheeks, lips swollen and moist, the heat in his eyes…too potent they were, too intoxicating to think of anything else.  

“What Aldus said to Eduard, it be true.”

John said it quietly, but looking at Sherlock John knew had he shouted it he still would not have been heard. _Tis probably thinking about what the alehouse keeper said about the nobleman. Most likely he knows already how and why Gareth killed Eduard, to where he ran off, and what his mother’s maiden name be._ His heart swelling with pride for his companion’s brilliance, John let out a soft sigh.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed.

“What Aldus said, twas true.”

“Twas what true?” Though his head turned to John, Sherlock still had a look that said his concentration twas elsewhere.

Nervous, John cleared his throat. “When Aldus said you be as beautiful as a rose on a dewy morn. Tis true.”

Sherlock stopped mid-stride; John had his full attention. “Oh.”

Looking up at the magnificent creature beside him, John found he had trouble breathing. His heart pounding in his chest, he whispered, “Yes, ‘oh’.” John licked his lips, suddenly parched. “I- I am so…you are so…”

Sherlock took a slow step toward John, closing the space between them. He loomed over John, his eyes dark with…what? John wondered.

“I am so ‘what’?” Sherlock bent his head down til he twas but a breath away, his gaze now fixed on John’s mouth. His breath as unsteady as John’s.

“Christ.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

With a smile, John tipped his head back to meet eyes that seared into him. _Dear God, help me,_ he prayed, as Sherlock lowered his head to rest his lips on his mouth.

“Tis not right,” John murmured, unable to move. Not wanting to.

“What tis not right? This?” Sherlock murmured in response, sliding his tongue across John’s pliant mouth. “Or this?” he breathed. With a delicate nudge, he parted John’s lips and dipped inside, flicking light licks on John’s tongue, the sensitive inner lining of his lips, the corners of a mouth that without a word said “more”.

John leaned forward, falling against Sherlock’s chest where he felt an erratic heartbeat that matched his own. And with a tortured groan he reached up, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands. Knowing without a doubt that nothing, _nothing,_ twas ever so right.


	5. Chapter 5

The body he held in his arms trembled. 

Sherlock had at first thought John was in pain.  Why else would he quake?  Why else would he moan against his lips when he kissed him?  When he pressed his mouth to John’s neck, gently nipping with his teeth?  Surely he was not hurting him.  Yes, Sherlock did wrap John in his arms, holding him as if he might not ever let him go, but not with his full strength.  He had no desire to hurt the man who had been so tender with him.  The man who made his chest feel as if it were about to burst. 

As their kiss deepened, there it was, another moan. 

Oh.                                                                      

Twas not that the kisses hurt John, but that he _enjoyed_ them. 

To hold this man in his arms who had seen the world and led men into battles, who at that very moment trembled and moaned from his kisses, the humility of it made his knees weak.  Curious.  Sherlock could assure anyone twas not one humble bone to be found in his body.

“Be you well, love? I have not hurt you, have I?”  John dragged himself away, concern filling his face as he looked up at Sherlock.

With John’s body no longer pressed against his own, Sherlock shivered in the chill night air.

“Hurt me?  No.  Why ask you such a thing?”  _No, no, please do not go._ _Tis nothing more I want than to hold you, to taste your skin, to kiss you in places that no one,_ no one, _but me will ever have the right to touch._

“You are shaking.  Be you cold?”

“I was shaking?  I thought twas you.”    _Wait…_ _love?  You called me love?_

“Sherlock, love.  Thee be not ill, be thee?”  John touched the back of a hand to Sherlock’s forehead.  “Your skin be not too warm, but tis cold out and thee be not yet healed.  Here, let me put my cloak on thee.”

As John removed his cloak, Sherlock put a hand out, stopping him.  “No, I am not cold.  Never have I been warmer.  Tis you that warms me.”  A soft smile spread across Sherlock’s lips, lips swollen from kisses.  Kisses freely taken and freely given.  And he pulled John back into the circle of his arms. 

They stood there, hidden in the night, body to body, heart to heart.  Both enjoying the quiet felicity, the gentle rhythm of each other’s breaths.  Twas so calming to them after the tumultuous last two days.

“Tis madness, you know.”  John lay his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, slanting his neck to ease Sherlock’s access as he nibbled a lazy trail upward.

“You talk too much,” Sherlock murmured, finding the sensitive patch of skin behind John’s earlobe, teasing it with his tongue.

“Sherlock, I be serious.” John groaned at the onslaught, against his will his head lolling back.

“I _am_ serious.  Now shhh.”  Sherlock covered John’s mouth with his own, any further words muffled, then silenced. 

With a heavy sigh, seeming as if he were fighting himself more than Sherlock, John succeeded in disentangling himself from Sherlock’s arms.  Almost.

“Listen to me Sherlock, we need to talk about this.  Two men?  Together?  We could be hanged for that alone.  Not to mention that I be a knight, and you a servant.”

As much as he did not want to have that conversation, Sherlock relaxed his hold and with a last soft last kiss on the mouth, he released John.  The loss was a keen one.  Nothing more did he want than to keep holding John in his arms. 

“All right.  What do we do?”  Sherlock crossed his arms, the pout clouding his face disappearing when John stroked his thumb along his cheek.  Just a light touch, but it soothed him.  And the look on John’s face, twas as if he were looking at something wondrous and fascinating.  Making him think that perhaps…perhaps not only did John care _about_ him, but _for_ him.  Could it be? 

“First of all, know that I love thee.  No, no, I mean, er, I _care_ about thee-”

Sherlock felt light-headed at the words that came out of John’s mouth.  “You said “love”, John.” He turned his head, tracing a path with the tip of his tongue along John’s palm, punctuating it with a kiss. This time _twas_ John who trembled. “You cannot take it back.”

“It is all right?  That I- that I love thee?”

“Yes, John.  Yes, tis all right.”  Sherlock hoped that John saw in his eyes what he could not say in words.  That he thought he, too, had fallen in love.  The light-headedness lingered, making Sherlock wonder if there were more to his injuries than the ones on his back.   _Sherlock Holmes, in love.  What be happening to me?_

John let out a heavy breath, visibly relieved. “Tis, important, _so_ important we hide how we feel; if anyone found out…I cannot think of it.  We cannot touch each other when others are about.  No looks that others can see.  We cannot let the squires, nor anyone else get hint of this.  Of us.  How, I do not know.  It will be hard, so hard. Maybe...” 

“Maybe what?”

“If we have a secret sign, a gesture or a word.  Something that says ‘I love thee’ without anyone else guessing what it means.”  John’s face scrunched as he tried to think of a suitable signal.

“I could call you ‘idiot’,” Sherlock said.  “Twould be no stretch since tis what I call most people.”

A chuckle bubbled from John’s mouth. “I think not.  Jealous I would be, hearing you tell one and all you love them!  Hmmm, let me think.  Should be something that no one will know what it means, not even Cedric and Aldus…Eduard!  I forgot about Eduard!  Christ.  We need to go, love. Uhm, I mean Sherlock.”

And entwining their fingers they stood looking at each other, enraptured, each unwilling to be the first to break the spell they found themselves under.  But break it they did, and with reluctant footsteps they went in search of where Cedric found Eduard’s body. 

When they found the site, there was no doubt twas where someone had been killed.  A life’s worth of blood had spilt on the dirt, the light from the moon helping Sherlock and John see the dried spots mixed with those still wet, thick and puddled.   Sherlock’s quest for the knife was for naught.

“Gareth must have disposed of the knife, or taken it with him.”

“Why do we need to find the knife, Sherlock; you said you know his manner of death.  What else could it tell us?”

“Yes, stabbed with a knife or dagger he was.  But whose? What if it wasn’t Eduard’s?  Think, John.  Most knives are engraved with a family crest or its design is so specific twould be no doubt as to which family it belongs.  If we find the knife we may not know who killed Eduard, but we will have narrowed it down to a group of people.  One with a man named Gareth.”

“We must alert the authorities, Sherlock, tis the law.  When he is captured he will be no more threat to you.  And capture him they must.  I- I cannot bear the thought of thee in danger, Sherlock. I cannot lose thee.”  John took Sherlock’s hands in his, marveling at their elegance.  He traced a long, graceful finger, and then another, imagining how they would feel against his skin, caressing it with desire, not as “a means to an end”.  And next time twould _not_ be in a fetid barn.    

Looking back up at Sherlock’s face, John’s darkened. “I cannot lose thee.  I have only just found thee.”

“Should we notify the sheriff we will be detained for days, weeks, not allowed to leave until they find him.  And then the trial. No, we must go, leave Leith and travel to London.  It will not bring Eduard back to find his murderer.  And if we be correct, that I was the intended victim, I have little doubt Gareth will follow us, giving us the chance to catch him on our own.

“Sherlock, tis too dangerous!”

With a gleam in his eye, Sherlock cocked a smile.  “And you be afraid of a little danger?”

John had no need to say a word, for the exhilaration on his face told Sherlock everything he needed to know. 

* * *

 

A figure stepped out of the shadows, startling John and Sherlock as they walked back to the inn. Reflexes honed by years of practice, John's knife flew to within a hair's breadth of the man's neck, ready to defend them.

“Sir John!  Tis me, Cedric!” Cedric threw his hands up into the air, tipping his head back to create more space between him and the deadly weapon.

John withdrew the knife and tucked it back into its sheath. Glaring at his squire, “Tis not wise to startle me so when there be a murderer about.” 

“But I must speak with you.”  Dropping his arms, with a pointed look at Sherlock, Cedric added, “Privately”.

“I will go make the preparations,” Sherlock said, leaving the men to talk alone.

John nodded, already missing the warmth in Sherlock’s voice.  Surely the aloofness was for Cedric’s benefit.  Was it not?  But he did not have time to ponder the difference, for Cedric had started talking.

“The nobleman, he did not kill Eduard.” His proclamation was so assured one would have thought Cedric had witnessed the murder.  “What motive had he? Eduard did nothing untoward, he offended no one.  Why would someone we have never before seen kill Eduard?  I have come to the undoubtable conclusion was Sherlock who took Eduard’s life. Could be no other.”

“Do not be ridiculous!  For what reason would he have killed Eduard?! As you say, Eduard offended no one, and surely that includes Sherlock. No, he did not commit this odious act.  He could not have.  We talked, and came to the conclusion-”

“We?  _We_?!  He has poisoned you beyond what I already thought.  Sir John, I implore you, do not keep council with him.  He is but a _servant_ , he is.  He knows not of the world and has no right to speak with you in such a confidential manner. You allow him to take liberties that do not befit his station.”

John bristled.  “Tis well beyond _your_ station to speak with me this way.  I will do you the favor of attributing it to the shock you have suffered tonight, to the shock we all have suffered.  But make no mistake, the favor will expire by the time I see you again.  Return to the room when you have righted your sensibilities.”  John turned on his heel, heading toward the inn.

“No!  Listen to me.”  Cedric grabbed John’s arm, his fingers digging into firm muscle.

John stiffened, and in a voice laced with ice, bit out, “Remove your hand.  Now.”

Cedric loosed his grip, and dashing into John’s path, blocked him from walking away. “ _Think_.”  Looking at John’s face, he added, “Sir.  We know nothing of this Sherlock except what he has told us.  Aldus and I were with Eduard, twas neither of us.  Sherlock was alone when we took Eduard’s body back to the inn; you had left.  How long were you away?  Was it time enough for the servant to have found Eduard, to kill him and return to the inn?” 

Cedric’s eyes beaded into John as he waited for a response.

John’s stomach twisted; he felt ill.  The arguments Cedric presented _did_ hold a certain logic.  Time enough there had been whilst he had been gone, not that he would share with Cedric for how long and not what he had been doing.  But no.  _No._ Sherlock would not have killed Eduard.  Would he?

John hesitated, repulsed with himself that he felt the need to ask, but to make a sensible argument, he must know Cedric’s reasoning.

“But what motive would Sherlock have to kill Eduard?  What quarrel would he have had with him?” 

“Mad he is, like a diseased dog; nothing he does need be rational.  Remember what he said to the men who tried to drown him.  But tis more than that.  He has airs.  You see it, tis obvious.  Shrewd he was, horning himself into our group, into a friendship with you.  He wants to get rid us squires so he can have you for himself.”

“Cedric!” 

Cedric persisted.  “Be heedful, Sir John.  Perhaps he be after you, too. Who can know of what he is capable.  His kind tis not to be trusted.”

_No._ _Not Sherlock. A little mad he may be, but if he be, he be mad with brilliance. Mad with a clever tongue that drives_ me _to the edge of madness…_   

“No.  Tis enough, Cedric.  I will listen to no more absurdity.  Sherlock is but man who was in need of our assistance and we will continue providing that assistance until we arrive in London.  I have already arranged for him to travel with us.  We…”  John cleared his throat.  “I came to the conclusion that Gareth, whoever he may be, thought Eduard was Sherlock and that is why he killed him.  They look convincingly alike, of this you cannot disagree.” 

“But if that be true, Sir John, why would someone want to kill the servant?  Surely there had to be a reason.  What did he do to cause such retribution?  An eye for an eye, tis the only good reason.  Either way, whether he killed Eduard or this other person, he be a cold-blooded murder.”

John felt the urge to wipe the smugness off Cedric’s face.  True, there be many things he did not know about Sherlock, and the things he did know (rapturous kisses that swept him off his feet, a depth of intuitiveness that could only be a divine gift), did not reveal his character.  But if there were one thing John knew about himself, twas he had an unerring sense of who a man was _._ And was not.  And he would swear upon the grave of his child that Sherlock was not a murderer.  No, twas no possibility.  None.

“Cedric.  At my behest you speak of this to no one.  Not of Eduard’s death and not of your opinions of Sherlock.  He did no wrong; he had not enough time to do all you say.  I was gone but moments before Sherlock found me and told me.  You are to treat him with courtesy.   If you choose not to do so, make no mistake, you will be on your way home and I will ensure you never, _ever,_ rise to knighthood.  Tis clear?”

Cedric turned his back on John to leave.  The toss of his head told John that Cedric fought to respond.

“Tis _clear_?”

 “Yes, Sir.”  Cedric strode off, anger weighing down every step.

* * *

 

When John returned to the inn, he opened the door to a room tinged with the smell of acrid smoke.  _They must have burnt Eduard’s clothing._  Cedric was not yet there, and Aldus, well… John sighed.  He already missed the brash young man so full of life, hoping that the dispirited figure he saw staring into the hearth would not be with them for long.  

Sherlock looked up at John from where he leaned over Eduard, pulling an arm through the sleeve of a fresh shirt.

_Thine eyes. Lord, thine eyes.  Am I to be struck by lightning every time I see them? You will surely be the death of me._ And just when John thought he might be able to breathe again, Sherlock smiled.  Was a small one, just a tick up at the sides of his mouth, but oh, what it did to John.  _No, this be no murderer.  Even the hardest of men, ones who have a soul of evil could not so soon cover their sins with such sweet kisses, and a smile that would brighten the darkest night._

His stomach aflutter with the excitation of new love, John smiled back.  _So beautiful you be…_

The door behind John opened and their smiles dropped, Sherlock’s attention returning to his task. 

Cedric closed the door, his feet heavy on the floor as he trod to an empty bed, throwing himself onto it. 

Sherlock glanced up at John.  _Why be he angry?_

_I will tell thee later._

Wiping a hand over his face, John slumped into a chair, feeling every one of his seven and twenty years.  How, in this small room, with two squires he trusted with his life, one who had lost his life, and a man he loved with a ferocious fire burning through him, did it feel as if he were on the battlefield?  With a weary sigh, “Sherlock?”

“Yes, Sir John?”

John cocked an eyebrow.  _Sir John?!  Do not get too carried away!_

_It means “I love you”, idiot._

_Ahhh!_

“Need thee…need you salve applied again?  I know not how often tis needed.”  _Christ_.  He could not have more boldly declared his love for Sherlock.  Hiding his regard for Sherlock was going to be much more difficult than he thought.

“Twould be best.  Sir John.”

John’s lips twitched, trying to hide his smile.  “Aldus, when Sherlock be done dressing Eduard, apply the salve to Sherlock’s wounds; tis in the mazer on the table.” 

_John!_  

_I am as disappointed as you, love.  But if I touch thee right now, I fear I may not have the strength to stop.  Soon love, soon._

“Then get some sleep, Aldus.  You, too, Cedric.  You be exhausted and we will arise early.  We leave for London first thing.” 

“The servant, too?”  Cedric flopped onto his side, turning his back on the room.

Cedric’s petulance should not have surprised John, not after the things Cedric had said to him, but he did not know why he behaved so.  Yes, they were all disturbed by the sudden death, but Cedric had always showed an unswerving loyalty to him, even in the most difficult situations. 

“Yes, Sherlock, too.”  Lord he was tired.  Tomorrow would be a better day.  It had to be. 

“Sir, I will be happy for Sherlock to come with us.” Aldus spoke quietly from where he still stood at the hearth, his first words since his emotional outburst earlier.  “It will be good to have another set of eyes and ears. And with Eduard gone,” Aldus’ voice broke, but with a deep breath and several rapid blinks, he composed himself.  “With Eduard gone, I could teach him how to use a sword.  He is not as senseless as most servants; I think he would learn quickly.”

John’s smile kind, “Yes, yes he would.  Thank you, Aldus.  What think you, Sherlock?  Be you amenable to learning how to handle a sword?  Or know you already?  You do seem to have an astounding breadth of knowledge for one who lives so sheltered a life.”

“I am amenable to _anything_ you would like, Sir John.  Anything at all.” 

_Oh, you be a wicked man!_

“All right. When we are safely away from town we will see to your lessons, Sherlock.  But for now, please finish with Eduard and then Aldus will see to your wounds.”

John closed his eyes, the day getting the better of him.  Resting his head on the back of the chair, he had time to think.  Who was Gareth, and why did he want Sherlock dead?  How _had_ Sherlock gained so much knowledge?  Surely, as a servant he would not have access to education.  Why be Cedric so angry about Sherlock and what difference be it to him for Sherlock to travel with them?

So many questions, none for which he had an answer.

Eduard’s preparation complete, John watched through hooded lids as Sherlock and Aldus readied themselves to treat Sherlock’s back. Whilst Aldus retrieved the mazer and brought a chair over behind Sherlock, much as John had done earlier, Sherlock tossed his tunic to the side.  Next went the shirt.

John shifted in his seat.  Those shoulders, so broad and strong, tapering down to the narrow waist.  As ugly as the lash wounds were, they would never mar Sherlock’s beauty.  John’s stomach tightened at the thought of what Sherlock had had endured.  It had been wrong, so wrong.  He bit his lip as Aldus applied the salve, his fingers clumsy.  Sherlock said nothing, but John heard the low hisses wrought from pain. 

How he wished he could kiss Sherlock well…

* * *

 

“Why be you so happy tonight?  You’ve been humming all evening.”  On his way to the bed at the far end of the room, Colin touched his mother’s arm.

“Can a woman not be happy for no reason a’tall?  Sometimes tis good just to be alive.”  Laila’s eyes crinkled, matching the smile that had lit her face ever since she had welcomed her visitors. 

“Well, tis good to have you happy.  Too much difficulty in life you have had, tis true.  Goodnight, Mother.”  Colin stooped and kissed her upturned cheek.

“Sleep well, my son.” 

Laila muffled the bubble of joy fighting to escape her.  Giddy she was, and she had no need for Colin to press her for a cause.   She had kept her secrets for many a year and had no intent to reveal them now.  Colin need not know that at one time she had been more than a woman who scraped by from day-to-day.  Nor need he know he had an older brother.  Twould lead to too many questions, questions she could not answer without putting his brother in harm’s way.

Laila washed herself with fresh water Colin had brought her that evening, humming as she went through her weekly ablutions.  Twas a tune she had loved for many a year, one that had been played to her and her family by fine musicians in a fine home.  The home she did not miss; the family she did.  Most of all she missed her elder son with an ache that was always with her.  Twas not natural for a mother to be separated from her own flesh and blood.  Twas not natural that a son would not know who is mother be.  But at that moment she almost felt restored.  As if everything in the world were perfect.  She pushed to the back of her mind that her peace would end soon; she knew well enough from experience it would.  But for now she would pretend that everything was as it should be. 

Readied for bed, Laila knelt beside it.  Twas later than usual, but sleep would elude her for most of the night. 

Sherlock, her Sherlock, had come to see her.  True, the visit had been for far less time than she could have wished, though in truth it could never be long enough.  But her being filled with joy from the few minutes she did spend with him. 

Clasping her hands together and resting her chin atop them, Laila recited the Lord’s Prayer.  And when she was done, she gave herself permission to pour out her heart out to Him. 

_Glorious God in Heaven, thank thee,_ thank _thee_.  _It hast salved my soul to see Sherlock happy and healthy. Tis more than I could wish for.  Please forgive me for the times I be angry with thee, thou knows I mean thee no harm.  But it has been so long and I worry about him.  I know he is in thy loving hands, but as a father thou surely knows a parent worries.  Unlike thee, I have no power to keep him safe, and I trust thee, I do.  Truly.  But to see him, oh, tis as if the wings of an angel have alighted on me, my feet float above the ground._

_Thank thee, too, for his friend, the Knight.  Him I do not know, but sound kind, he did.  My boy has never taken a liking to people, finds them insufferable, but maybe, just maybe, with thy help he will let someone into his heart.  Life be difficult, and so much more so alone._

_In thy gracious name, I pray.  Amen._

Finished, Laila rose, her aching knees forgotten as she pulled the covers down and climbed into bed.  She lay there, thinking of her fine young man, happiness humming through her as she thought of seeing Sherlock again the next day, unaware she would only be met with melancholy.  For when she awakes the next morning she will find the empty mazer on the stoop, not to know when she will again see her beloved son.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you reading, kudo-ing, and commenting. Only because of your support have I been able to keep going with this story; the first few chapters were such a bugger for me. You are wonderful! <3


	6. Chapter 6

Half asleep, John relished the comfort in which he found himself.  But how be he so comfortable?  Was the room not cold?  Surely so close to morn the fire would have died out.  And was not the bed lumpy with ticking? 

Too content to trouble himself with finding the answers, he decided was a thicker coverlet than he had thought.  That the fire had been strong enough to last all night.  Bunching his pillow, he huddled further into the bed, his buttocks bumping into something firm as he wriggled his hips.  Hmmmm, he did not remember lying so close to the wall when he came to bed, but then, he had been so weary he barely remembered anything at all.  Still, twas something different about the wall.  It – it moved. 

_No, it could not have.  Walls do not move._

But not only did it move, it conformed to the curve of his body.  And it puffed warm air at him, tickling the back of neck where his hair brushed against it.

Wait!  Be that an _arm_ wrapped around him?!

“Sher-!”  A hand clamped over his mouth. 

“Quiet,” a deep voice whispered into his ear. 

“Aswe faisdi lks, afs jssaj!” John mumbled against the offending hand.

“Shhhhh. Tis me, Sherlock.” 

_Of COURSE, tis Sherlock!  Who ELSE would be in my bed, goddammit!_

John relaxed, his body going limp in surrender.  Twould do no good to wake his squires, and twould be the only way to get Sherlock out of his bed.  His _bed_!  What be the fool thinking?! 

His mouth freed, John glanced over at the squires.  Not that he need look to reassure himself they slept, for a jangle of snores from the two men filled the room.  Twas a wonder he could ever sleep. 

“Do not worry, they be asleep,” Sherlock whispered.

John rolled over and glared at Sherlock.  _Tis not the point, is it?!  Thou should NOT be in my bed._ But twas difficult to stay angry, not with Sherlock’s eyes turned a sea green in the amber from the dying embers.

“Go on, get thee to bed; thou should not be here.  There still be time to sleep,” John whispered.

“I _have_ slept, and besides, your bed be much more comfortable.  _You_ be in it.” 

Sherlock looked so innocent, so earnest; a devil child twas what he be.  John flattened his palms on Sherlock’s chest, a small push would be all it would take to send him on his way.  But he could not do it.  Instead, John’s hand drifted up to Sherlock’s jaw, stubble scratching the pads of his fingers.  His eyes drawn to abundant lips, they enticed him as a bee to a flower.  Entrancing him.  _What be it about you that makes me do things I should not do?_ He tilted his chin to reach lips as sweet as honey, puckering at them, savouring them.  Sherlock’s hand at the back of his head brought him closer and their mouths opened to one another, tongues eagerly seeking each other out.  Tasting, caressing, dancing.  A dance of desire.  And oh, how John desired Sherlock.  

Sherlock leaned into John, bringing their bodies flush, their chests heaving against one other.  Hands groped, exploring warm, firm flesh.  And the world around John disappeared, everything save for this man who thrilled him as nothing and no one else had ever done.  A man who-

“Sir John, Sherlock.”  Aldus shuffled to the far end of the room and stopped, sending a stream of liquid splashing into the chamber pot.

_Dear fucking Christ._   John’s breath caught in his throat and, with great care not to make a sound, he eased himself from Sherlock.  

Finished, Aldus shuffled back to bed, yawning before dropping onto it.  “Nigh-,” he mumbled, his snores resuming so quickly he did not have time to finish what he said. 

_Twas close, so close._ Too _close._ John’s heart thumped fast and hard against his ribs; the entire town would surely hear it. 

His racing heart slowing, John said, “Often he arises at night but does not remember what he does.  Tis best you leave now, dawn will soon be here.” John put his hands on Sherlock’s chest, just as unable to push him away as moments before.  Too tempting it was to linger.  A little more time together could not hurt…

Sherlock wrapped his arm possessively over John’s waist and John rested his hand at Sherlock’s hip, slipping it over to trace the swell of rounded buttocks.  Their faces a breath apart, they whispered. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Yes, John?” 

“Why think thee this Gareth would want to kill thee?  Who do you think he is?  Does thou think thou has ever met him?”  John had debated with himself whether to tell Sherlock Cedric’s fantastic accusation, but no, he would keep that to himself.  What good could come from it? 

“Tis vexing. He could mistake me for someone else, but he knew my name, and ‘Sherlock’ be not common.”

“No, thee not be common…ouch!” A playful gigg followed John’s protest to the pinch Sherlock gave him.  “Twas not an insult by any means.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Mmm hmm.  So, the squires say Gareth be a nobleman. Perhaps he be someone my Lord sent looking for me, but I think not.  His cause would be to return me to the manor; I be worth more alive than dead.  I cannot but think twas my father who sent him to find me, nothing else holds logic.  I be of no value to anyone else.”

“I beg thou pardon, this not be true. “And I thought _thee_ be the smart one.” John tasted Sherlock’s lips again.  Sweet.  So, so, sweet.  “But why would thy father want to see thee dead?  If thou be kidnapped, as thou believes, he would want to bring thee back home.”

“Tis my thought, exactly.  My father would not want to see me dead. Perhaps he be ill, he would be quite old by now.  Perhaps Gareth be a younger brother or some other kin who wants to take what is rightfully mine.  My title, my inheritance.”

“Does thou truly think thou be a Prince or the son of a nobleman?”  As much as John wanted Sherlock’s illusions to be true for his sake, in John’s mind the likelihood was as slim as finding a fabled unicorn.

“I do not think it, I know it.  Tis why I need to go to London.  There I will find answers, discover my true heritage.  Surely someone in such a large city would have information.” 

Gazing into each other’s faces, they grew quiet. Each consumed by their own thoughts.

Enraptured by the features before him, John floated on a cloud.  Love he had known before.  Love for his family and the son who did not live a day.  His wife, now gone, and his squires, yes. in a fashion he loved them, too, for they held great importance in his life.  They were people about which he cared.  But this, _this_ , with Sherlock was unlike anything he had ever felt.  It had burst upon him as if the sun had fallen from the sky, blinding him, searing his skin. But pain it did not cause, no, twas a kiss to his soul.  It healed him, and he had not known he be broken. 

But a wave of sadness washed over John.  He grieved that they would have to hide their love, that all they could have would be stolen moments.  For himself, he did not care if the world knew.  He had lived a good life, had had the honour of Knighthood.  The title and the riches could be stripped away but twould not matter if Sherlock be by his side, for nothing else could, or would, make him happier.  What grieved him, too, was their love would bring Sherlock more danger than he had already seen.  The thought of more harm to Sherlock, death even, anguished John; he could not bear it.  Just last night he had told Sherlock that he could not lose him.  Those words he had meant, but at what cost to the man he loved?  If he loved Sherlock, truly _loved_ Sherlock, he should put his safety first, protect him. 

With blinding clarity, he knew what he must do. He would have to push aside his selfish desires and do what was best for Sherlock.  He must end their union.  Now. The decision to tear himself from Sherlock cut as sharp as if a knife be rending John’s insides.  But do so he must, for better it be to part from him and know Sherlock be alive than to see a cold, stiff body lying on the ground or hung from a tree. 

John swallowed, and swallowed again, struggling to find air.

“What be wrong?  You be troubled.”  Sherlock captured John’s hand, pressing his lips to the center of his palm.

“Nothing, tis nothing.”  John swallowed again, sorrow holding back the words he needed to say.

“Tis not nothing, tell me.  Have I done something wrong?”

John blew out a breath.  “I cannot do this.  Tis too dangerous.”

“Tis all right, John, we need not leave Leith.  When the sun comes up we will tell the sheriff.  We can stay here until Gareth is caught, then head to London.” Sherlock smiled. “I have nowhere else to be.  London can wait.”

“No, tis not that about which I worry, though that still is not right.”  John turned away from Sherlock, withdrawing his hand from the one that still held it.  “This.  Us.  Tis not right.  We must stop this.”

“Tis dangerous, to be true-”

“Dangerous and foolish.  And we both know you do not gladly suffer foolishness.”

“Tis foolish to be in love?”  

The edge in Sherlock’s voice twisted John’s stomach. He had made Sherlock angry.  Hurt him.  John squeezed his eyes shut.  To hurt Sherlock was worse than if he hurt himself.  But if twas to protect Sherlock, hurt him he must.

He must make Sherlock believe he no longer cared.   

“Yes, love be for fools.  I- I was wrong, I do not love thee…you.  I confused my emotions with desire, and _this_ , uh, be not worth losing my Knighthood.”  John could not look at Sherlock, could not look at the hurt and betrayal twas surely on his face. That beautiful, beautiful face.   

“I see.  How imprudent of me to have mistaken your intentions, but tis not as if I have much experience with the human heart.  I see I have not missed out.”  As Sherlock rolled off the bed, he said, “I shall relieve you of my distasteful presence and set off at the light of dawn.” 

John's hand shot out and grasped Sherlock around his wrist.  “ _No._   I mean, uhm, no, tis fine; you be welcome to travel with us.  You still be in need of protection and tis dangerous to travel alone.  I keep my word when I say I will recommend you to families when we reach London.”

Leaning down into John’s face, “Your word?  Your _word_ be, you love me.  But I see not all knights be as honorable as I have heard.  _Sir. John._ ”  Sherlock wrested his arm from John's hold.

John flinched.  That time “Sir John” be not an endearment.  He said nothing, for were he to apologise, he would not stop there.  He would gather Sherlock into his arms, hold him tightly to him and never let go.  Kiss away the storm on Sherlock’s face until nothing be left but happiness, squires and the world be damned.  But this he could not do, not if he were to keep his promise of ensuring Sherlock’s safety.

“You be free to do as you like, but I think the wise choice be to stay with us.”  John threw his covers off and escaped out the door.  He needed air.

* * *

 

John traversed the streets of Leith in a haze, not knowing or caring where his feet took him.  Not knowing he walked the same streets and paths time and again. It did not matter. Nothing mattered.  

Nothing but Sherlock.

“Morning, good Sire!”  “Need you Aberdeen fish for your journey?”  “Hardware to repair your cart?”  “Ahhh! I have fine rabbit fur, the best in all of England.  Come!  Take a look!”

Twas early yet, but the merchants had opened their doors, preparing for the busy market day to come.  Calling out to John as he passed them they entreated he peruse their wares, hopeful for their first sale of the day, but John did not hear them.

_One more time.  I must see him one more time. Do not be ridiculous, John. Proud he be. Sherlock will have left by the time I arrive back at the inn. He will not delay his departure, waiting for me to again be so unkind. Ha_. _And I called myself “friend”.  No friend I be, protecting him against prejudice, yet making him find his own way to London.  Maybe he will go back to his Lord’s manor?_ John smiled.  _As little as I know of this man I know he be a man to set his own course, and set it he has.  To London he goes._

The tip of dawn cresting the horizon with its reddish-gold hues pulled John from his fog.  Twas time.  Twas time to leave Leith.

Twas time to leave Sherlock.

John headed toward the inn, his feet growing heavier.  As much as he hoped to see Sherlock, his fear he would not slowed his return. The closer he came to the inn the harder it was to pick up his feet, to move them forward.  He steeled himself for the painful discovery that indeed, he would not again see the man who stirred him so.  How be it that knowing a man for mere days he felt as if every good he had ever known was being taken from him?

_Twas not taken, I gave it away.  No, no, I did not give it away.  I crumpled it up in my hands and thrust it at him.  As if he were useless, as if he were putrid and unwanted.  And nothing,_ nothing, _be further from the truth._

After trudging up the stairs, when John entered the room twas as he feared, only Aldus and Cedric be there.  Twas no sign of Sherlock.

John surveyed the room. “I see you be packed and ready to leave, good.  Uh.  Uhm…”  His heart sank at his next words, but he drew himself up straight.  The squires did not need to see his distress. “Sherlock be not traveling with us, he has decided to go his own way.” 

“What mean you, Sir John?” Aldus asked, his confusion apparent.  “Sherlock be in the stable.  We helped him carry Eduard downstairs and Sherlock be, well, settling him in. He said he would wait for us down there.” 

Oh.   _Oh._ Sherlock be not gone.It did not mean Sherlock had forgiven him, but it did mean Sherlock had accepted his offer.  Perhaps he not be so stubborn after all.  “Good, tis good.”  _Tis very good._ Though lovers they could not be, twas a small hope they could be friends.

Cedric, no more amiable than the night before, “I do not understand, Sir John, why we do not stay in Leith; tis the law to report Eduard’s death.  And are we not to bury him?  Will he be with us all the way to London, attracting flies, wild beasts hunting his meat?  I cannot imagine the stench.”  Cedric wrinkled his nose in anticipation of rotting flesh.

“Yes, of course, we will bury Eduard, but we will wait until we find a suitable spot in the forest.”  Whilst he talked, John inspected Eduard’s bed to make sure twas no evidence of his passing.  That the floor had been cleaned, the clothes fully burned.    “And, yes, tis the law…under usual circumstances.  But this was no usual circumstance, a case of mistaken identity it was-”

“Twas no case of mistaken identity, I told you!  Twas Sherlock who killed Eduard!  And we be taking a murderer with us.”

“Sherlock murdered Eduard?!” Aldus gasped, his head snapping from Cedric toward Sir John.

_Christ, now Aldus be stirred up._ “No. Cedric-”

“So that be what you think.  I killed Eduard.”

John whipped around.  Sherlock stood tall in the doorway, his focus on John.  His countenance deathly cold.

_So that be why you do no longer desire my association.  You think I be a murderer._ Sherlock’s eyes, ice blue in accusation, pierced into him.

_No, no, I do not think you be a murderer.  You have not the heart to commit such an act.  I know you._

_Hm._

_Tis the truth._

John took a step toward Sherlock.  _How could you ever believe I would think such a thing of thee?_ But Sherlock took a step back, his gaze drifting somewhere over John’s head, though there be nothing at which to look.  

“Enough. _Enough_ already,” John said, facing Cedric and Aldus.  “No one, _no one,_ will accuse Sherlock of killing Eduard. Tis a ridiculous notion.  And you, Cedric, I told you not to spread such a malicious lie.  Sherlock did not have the time.  And why would he have?  Hmmm?” John held out his hand to silence Cedric before he said anything.  Cedric’s mouth, poised to speak, slammed shut.  “Twas a mocking question it was. We put this to bed last night, and to bed it will stay.”

“Tis a risk you be prepared to take, Sir John? To have a man in our midst who most likely be a murderer?” Cedric refused to be silenced a second time.

“In my estimation…no, in my _knowledge,_ tis no risk.  Sherlock be a murderer no more than you or me.”

Cedric scowled, and storming past John and Sherlock, pounded down the stairs.   

Aldus sidled next to John, and looking away from Sherlock though there be no doubt he could hear him, he asked, “Cedric thinks Sherlock killed Eduard?   Why would he think such a thing?  Has he special knowledge?”  Out of the corner of his eye he cast a suspicious glance at Sherlock, ready to defend Sir John should he make an untoward move.

“No, no, he has no special knowledge.”  John put his hand on Aldus’ shoulder.  Though Aldus be ten and seven years, in some ways he still seemed a child, at times bringing forth a father’s tenderness from him.  “He be upset, that is all.  Just as for you, Eduard’s death was a great shock and he needs someone to blame.  The two of you have been sheltered, never having been exposed to the brutal death of someone close to you.  He will come ‘round, give him time.”

“Well, if you think tis all right…”

“Yes, I think tis all right.  Safe you be with Sherlock.  And a very good idea it is to teach him how to use a sword.  A great asset he will be.”  John turned to smile at Sherlock, but he was gone.  John’s smile faded as he stared out the empty doorway.  He had hoped Sherlock had heard his testamony of faith in him, perhaps in some small way repairing the damage he had done.

Collecting himself, John squeezed Aldus’ shoulder.  “Now let us see that the horses be packed and ready to go.  On our way to London we are.”  

Standing in the room after Aldus left, John took a moment to be alone.  Took a moment to gather the courage to face what was sure to be a difficult day. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be on a road trip about the last 10 days of July, which means little writing while I'm gone. *Sad for me* But my goal is to get a chapter out before I'm off. Thanks for tagging along!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BBB. Best beta (in the world), Burning_Up_A_Sun! Thank you, sweets; I know you have NOTHING else to do, lol.

“Idiot!”

“Have you not eyes?!” Sherlock bellowed at the slovenly man demanding the portage.  “Four of us there be, and for four of us we shall pay!  You say you ‘think’ since you saw five of us arrive yesterday then we be hiding one so we do not have to pay more.  _You_ be not paid to ‘think’, you be paid to take the toll and take the toll you shall. Anyway, I have grave doubt you be capable of such a strenuous task.  Now out of our way!”

Sherlock tipped his head toward the collector, taking care not to make eye contact with John.  “Toss the coins on the ground.  We shall trod the horses over him if he does not move; a wasted use of human flesh, he be.” 

“Please forgive the disagreeable temperament of our young friend.”  John ignored the snort from Sherlock when he said “friend.”  “It appears he lacks for subtlety when he arises too early.  We will pay for five men, and here is extra coin for your troubles.”  He dropped two coins into a grubby palm, pursing his lips to keep from breathing in the stench.

“I do not know why you be so generous with such an insufferable fool.  An idiot he be.”  Sherlock kicked his heel into his horse’s flank, trotting ahead, but John kept apace.

“I do not disagree with you, Sherlock, but tis unwise to bring too much attention to ourselves.  And, in truth, he was right, we have five.  Paying extra pontage does no harm.”

“Do you not see?  Twas a diversion; he was eyeing our ‘supplies.’  Had he taken a closer look, he may have discovered twas not carefully wrapped goods.  Also, my _disagreeable temperament_ twas a means to ensure Gareth knows we have left town.  You know how people love to gossip.”  Trying again to put space between himself and John, he slowed his horse, letting John ride ahead of him.   

Hurt Sherlock be, and he needed to think.  Needed to think about John’s change of heart.  Why had John said he loved him, only to cruelly say twas untrue?

In his life Sherlock had been beaten, nearly drowned, whipped, and manipulated to perform the vilest acts.  Punishments that had been offences to his body.  But none had pained him as much as “I was wrong, I do not love you.”  John’s words had been an offence to his heart. He now knew this be the harshest punishment of them all.

John had said that for them to be together be “dangerous,” dangerous for himself, so he did not lose his Knighthood.  Though Sherlock be not impressed with titles, one man be as wicked as the next no matter what hat he wore, he knew these titles be important to those who carried them.  From what he had observed, those who carried such titles be vain, arrogant, and entitled, but these failings John did not have.  No, he be kind and generous.  Compassionate. 

Be it that John believed Cedric’s claims Sherlock killed Eduard?  Though the timing be right since twas after John and Cedric spoke the evening before, John had continued to show him care in the morning.  Twas not until after Aldus woke to use the chamber pot that John had grown quiet and withdrew his affections.  He had said that he was wrong, twas merely desire he felt and that alone be not sufficient to risk his knighthood. 

John had been married, surely he would know what love be and what it not be?  He said he needed to protect himself.  What an interesting chance that at the same moment John realised his love be only lust, that he worried for his knighthood; he had not worried when he declared himself in love.

“You be so beautiful,” John had said, his touch soft, tender, like none other Sherlock had experienced.  He thought back to his “customers” at the inn. They had not loved him. Their touches had been lecherous and insistent, raising bile from his stomach.  They thought only of themselves. 

They did not sigh when they kissed him.

The “customers” too, had called Sherlock “beautiful”, but there had been a hard glint in their eyes, his beauty only for their pleasure.  And when they were finished sating their carnal needs, they had cast him aside without thought or care. John had not acted in such a way; he had asked Sherlock to ride with them to London, for protection.   

Sherlock lifted his fingers, lightly pressing them to his lips.   _John_.  His eyes drifted closed and in his mind he inhaled John’s scent, tasted John’s supple mouth.  A shiver of anticipation rippled through him, making him want. Want John.  What would it feel like for John to touch him… _there_?   His groin grew warm with the gentle sway of the horse rocking him, awakening his manhood.  How would John’s mouth feel, hot and wet-   _Stop it!_ Sherlock shook himself from his trance, angry that he let himself get lost in dream that may never be. _Curses!  Tis so much easier to fall in love than out_.  

So why had John spurned him?

_By telling me we could not be together could it be…could it be John meant to protect not himself, but me? Twould not be the first instance in the short time I have known him.  He rescued me from the drowning, braved the dark of night to ensure I arrived in Leith unharmed.  And when he saw I had not, he took me back to their tents to tend to my wounds._

Could it be that John still loved him?  He needed to find out.  He _had_ to find out.  And to do so, he needed to figure out a way to trick John into revealing the truth.

* * *

 

Cedric gloated.  _It seems as if Sir John and Sherlock are not so friendly after last night._   No matter what Sir John had said, he must have given him cause to think; barely had Sir John and Sherlock looked at each other all day. As far as Cedric knew, they had talked not at all save for a few terse exchanges.  Yes, Sherlock still be with them, but he kept his distance from Sir John.

“Aldus,” Cedric looked behind him, confirming he and Aldus were far enough ahead of Sir John that he could not hear their conversation.  Sherlock lagged behind Sir John, leading the supply horse and horse that carried Eduard. “Tis important we be cautious around the servant.”

“But Sir John says we be safe in his presence.” Aldus craned his neck around to look at Sherlock, refreshing his memory.  “He does not _look_ to be dangerous.  Why think you Sherlock killed Eduard?  Sir John says tis because you be shocked.  You need someone to blame.”

“Do not be fooled by how he looks or by what he says, he is not going to announce his intentions.  Killers lurk in the dark of night; hide their evil spirits, they do.  And you have not the experience I have.  When you have more time in the world, you will see.  Will be as obvious as the nose on your face.”

“But,” Aldus’s nose wrinkled in confusion.  “If recognizing such qualities in a man has to do with worldly experience, why does Sir John take so kindly to him?  Today they do not ride next to one another, but Sir John looks back every now and then at Sherlock, and when he does he looks unhappy. You can see it in his eyes. He misses him.”

“Aaarghh! Do not be such a romantic.  And was it not you who be so upset that Sir John lusts after Sherlock?  Have you changed your mind in this short time? Tis acceptable and not an abomination of nature for two men to be together?”

“I know what I said, and I know you think twas because I be jealous.”  Aldus pursed his lips, thinking.  “Yesterday I would have been very much against it, believing it be not natural for men to love each other in the way a man and woman do.  But I barely slept last night thinking about Eduard dying; he be so young.  One does not know when one will die, so why not be as happy as one is able?  If Sir John were to die tomorrow, I would not wish for him to have been unhappy.” 

Aldus gasped, his hand flying to his mouth.  “I had a dream that Sir John and Sherlock were in bed together.  No!  Not like that!  Do not fill your mind with such filth.  No, kissing and talking they were.  They be happy.  I do not want to watch it, but neither do I wish them ill.”

“When did you become so philosophical?  I cannot say it suits you.”

Aldus shrugged.  “I am not a child, Cedric.  I know tis not popular to share an opinion that does not align with the Church, but tis what I think.”

“I will not argue with you Aldus, but tis my responsibility to look after you.  And no, I do not blame the servant for Eduard’s death because I be shocked.  Shocked I be, but think, why would a servant be so bold as to engage a knight?  A deceiver he be, tis no other reason.  He understood, with no previous knowledge, about Sir John’s wife and boy.  Sly he be, not only to conclude those details but to use them to prey on Sir John.  He wants Sir John’s riches to escape a dull life, and how he will get Sir John’s money is by making Sir John fall in love with him.

“Did you hear that?”  Reigning in his horse, Cedric stopped.  Twisting in his saddle, his eyes darted into the woods, onto the road in front and in back of them.  “Twas the sound of another set of hooves, maybe two or three.  And a dog.  I heard a dog.”

“What? I do not hear anything unusual.  You are probably going to blame that on Sherlock, too.”

“No, twas _definitely_ a dog.  I heard it bark.”

“And so?  Tis probably just someone coming down the road, or hunting; we will meet up with them soon enough if they be travelers.  Oh! Maybe tis that Gareth fellow.”  Aldus shuddered.  “We had best be most alert.  We do not need more trouble.

Cedric clicked his tongue, signaling his horse to walk.  “Gareth has no reason to follow us.  Twas Sherlock, I told you.  He got rid of Eduard so he can get closer to Sir John. And Eduard was only the first.  If Sherlock has his way, both of _us_ will be dead, too.  Mark my words.  We must stay together, make sure neither one of us is alone with him, tis the only way to stay safe.  And we must protect Sir John, too.”

“I still do not know, Cedric; I think you be wrong.  I think Sherlock loves Sir John.”  Aldus yawned.  “I hope we do not ride too long today, I think I will be able to sleep well tonight.”

“So you can dream about Sir John and the servant?” Cedric scoffed.  “I want no details.” 

“I will share _every_ juicy detail.  How long their kisses be, what kind of sounds they make, how big-”

“No!  Tell me nothing, I have no desire to know.  But just remember what I say, we stick together.”  

_Yes, we stick together.  No servant is going to defeat me._

* * *

 

It came to him.  Sherlock knew how to lure John into revealing the truth of his heart.  If he be wrong, if John did not love him, then he would blot the emotion from his memory.  But if John _did_ love him?  The corners of his mouth lifted at the possibility.

“Aldus!” Sherlock called.

Aldus guided his horse to the side of the road and waited for Sherlock.  “What be it, Sherlock?”

“You say you want to teach me how to use the sword.  I want lessons.  Now.”

“We be riding, Sherlock. I cannot teach whilst on a horse.”

“Give me the sword.”

“No, you be not ready.  Besides, we will have to wait until we be on the ground before I show you.  I would not want to strike my horse, would I!”  Aldus’ hearty laugh echoed into the woods, sending a squirrel scuttling back into hiding after it had had the temerity to peek out of the underbrush. 

“Give me the sword, I say.”  Sherlock reined to a halt, swinging his leg over the horse and dropping to his feet.

Circling back to where Aldus had stopped beside Sherlock, Cedric cautioned him.  “Remember what I told you.”

“Tis none of your concern,” Sherlock snapped at Cedric, his hand outstretched to Aldus.  “Now give it to me.” 

Aldus hesitated, his hand on the pommel of his sword. 

“What?  You think even if I be a murderer I be fast enough to use it on you before Cedric or your knight strike _me_? And then if I accomplish that I will live to enjoy my triumph?  Do not be absurd.  The sword.  You be wasting time.”

Sherlock took the sword from the doubtful hand holding it out to him and, stepping to the side, without caution swung its blade wildly through the air.  He knew well his method be improper, apt to accidentally harm anyone who came close, not to mention himself, but twas part of his plan.  

“No, no, no!  Hurt yourself, you will. Let me show you.”  Aldus slipped off his horse and rushed to Sherlock.  Bravely dodging the erratic movements of the lethal weapon, he unhanded the sword from Sherlock and held it in front of himself, angling it across his torso up toward his head.  “Here, like this.  Defending yourself be important, but you must be ready at all times to attack before you be attacked.”

Giving the sword to Sherlock, Aldus judged Sherlock’s stance with a keen eye.  “Your feet, they need to be shoulder width apart. Yes, that be good.  And keep your elbows in.”  When Sherlock’s elbows did not move, Aldus pushed them to his body, holding them to keep them from springing back out.  “There, that be good.  Now bring your-”

“Hands.  Off.”  Sherlock did not raise his voice, but twas no doubt from his adamance that Aldus had best remove his hands.  And quickly.

“But, Sherlock, you-”

“Get!  Your hands!  Off!  Of me!” 

One, two, three…

Just as planned, John hurriedly dismounted and ran to rescue Sherlock from Aldus.  Sherlock bit back his smile at his own cunning. 

“You be all right, Sherlock?”  John asked, a frown creasing his brow.

“I do _not_ want him to touch me.”  Sherlock clamped his mouth shut and glared at Aldus.

“I be showing him how to hold himself,” Aldus whinged. “All I did was position his arms.  I have no idea why he be so angry.” 

“He does not want to be touched,” John said, edging himself into the gap between Aldus and Sherlock.  “Be that so difficult to understand?” 

“I put the salve on him last night and he did not object.  How am I to know he be so fickle?  Sir John, will you help?  Perhaps you can get through to him.”  Aldus threw his hands up and walked over to stand by Cedric.

Turning to look up at Sherlock, John asked, “I, uhm, if it be all right with you?” 

“It be no difference to me.”  Counter to the thrill running through him that his plan be working so well, Sherlock assumed a disaffected air.  Twas difficult when John’s hair sparkled in the sunlight, his eyelashes be feathery and golden.  And his eyes…his eyes be as blue as the stormy sea, like the one Sherlock had seen in a painting at the manor.  _Turn away.  Turn away right now, John, or I will kiss you within an inch of your life._ And as if John heard him, he turned away, leaving Sherlock relieved that he would not be tempted to embarrass them both.

“The river be not far from here.”  John nodded toward the woods to the west of them.  “Aldus, you and Cedric collect rocks and pile them in that clearing yonder.  Would be a good place, I think, to bury Eduard.  My guess be the ground be soft.  We can cover his grave with the rocks to keep the beasts away.”

“Be you safe alone with the servant?”  Cedric eyed Sherlock warily.

John smirked.  “Of course, I be safe.  Now go.  Gather the rocks before it grows dark, and then we will sup.  I do not know about you, but I be famished.”  He stood, his back to Sherlock until the squires be out of hearing range.  

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Sherlock?”  This time the name was a soft plea.  “Please, Sherlock, stop fiddling with the sword and talk to me.  It be important.”

Sherlock tipped the sword into the ground and gave John his full attention.  “Yes, John? What be important?”

Gazing into the distance before lifting his eyes back to Sherlock, John said, “I will not talk about this morning, I think it would make both of us uncomfortable-”

“That be wise.”

“But, I need you to know I be sorry.  I did not mean—I did not mean to hurt-”

“You did not mean to hurt what, John?  Me?  I assure you, you did not.  Now, you are here to show me what your rattle-brained squire could not, or are you here to talk about insignificant matters?” 

Yes, what John had said that morning did hurt Sherlock, but too, it hurt Sherlock to act as if he did not care, for he did, very much.  Such emotions did not disappear with a wisp of the wind.  But as a practical matter, he must appear indifferent.  Were he to show John where his heart lay, John might be too skittish to fall into his trap. 

“If you want to help me, John, get on with it.” 

“Give me a moment!”  John moved behind Sherlock to adjust his elbows.

“In front of me, so I can see what you be doing.”  Twas imperative he saw John’s face.

When John stepped in front of Sherlock, Sherlock held out his arms. “Show me what I be doing wrong.”

As John looked down at Sherlock’s arms, his left fist clenched, and clenched again.  “If you think tis all right to touch you…”

Sherlock held completely still.  “Yes, tis all right, John.  Show me how I should hold the sword.  I will not bite you, I promise.” 

Sherlock breathed in deeply.  Within moments he would know that John still loved him; he refused to believe he might be wrong.  He called to mind the list of visible signs of love:  pulse (quickened), eyes (darkened), skin (flushed), and tongue.  The first three he remembered from the chatter in the servants’ quarters.  At the time, he had found their conversations insipid and had tried to block them out, but now he be grateful, for what he had learned would be quite useful.  The last sign, lips, Sherlock added specifically because of John.  He had noticed that John quite often licked his lips when he looked at him, but did not do so with anyone else.  Surely, that difference had meaning, did it not?

Unclenching his fist, John reached for Sherlock’s upraised wrists, his fingers wrapping lightly around them.  He held Sherlock as if he be precious and fragile, as if he might break if he gripped him too tight.  Transfixed by the sight of skin on skin, with his thumb he slowly stroked the soft skin along the inside of Sherlock’s left wrist. 

John startled when the sword fell to the ground. Raising his head, he stared into Sherlock’s eyes, eyes that would not release him.  Eyes that saw, and understood, the urgent longing on his face.

Leaning down to John’s ear, Sherlock breathed, “I love thee, too, John.  I love thee, too.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! They help this little writer carry on. <3

The curtains of the canopied bed drawn open to the sunlight, the shrunken man awoke, his wisp of shock white hair in disarray.  Now completely invalided, he rarely left the bed, sleeping in short, fitful doses.  Turning his head, he saw Millicent sat in the nearby chair, her constant presence a since he took ill a comfort to him.

“Has he returned?” he asked.  Every day for two years William had asked the same question, and every day for two years he received the same answer.

“I am afraid not.”  At the sound of her father’s voice Millicent had looked up from her needlework, glad for a reason to rest her weary eyes. 

“Come here, child,” he beckoned with a feeble wave, patting the empty space beside him on the bed. 

Poking the threaded needle haphazardly into the fabric, Millicent set the embroidery hoop to the side and moved to the bed.  Taking the frail hand offered her, she cradled it in her hands.  She held it lightly; his skin, thin and fragile, be apt to tear with even the lightest touch.    

“You know, tis not much time left.”  William curved his hand around hers.  His fingers stiff and uncooperative, they managed no more than a claw-like pose, grotesque against her youth-plumped hand.

Pretending to study the pattern on the coverlet, Millicent dropped her eyes, unwilling for him to see their melancholy.

“Come now, do not be sad, an old man I be.  I have been graced with more years on this earth than most, and a good life it has been.  But, tis something I need you to do for me.  When the time comes…” William waited until she raised her eyes to meet his.  “When the time comes, call Gareth home.  If by now he has not returned with Sherlock, tis likely he never will.  We know not if Sherlock even be alive, it has been such a long time.”

“Gareth will be home soon, with Sherlock.”  Millicent’s voice strong, she willed her father not to cede his will to live.  “It will be just a little longer.  You can stay a while, can you not?  You are not so poorly, I know it.”  Her fingers worrying a fold on her dress, indecisiveness clouded her pretty face.  “Father?”

“Yes, my dear?  What troubles thee?” 

“If you be not too tired, please tell me why you sent Sherlock’s mother away and how be it he be gone, too?  Tis impertinent of me to ask, I know, but though he and I have different mothers, he is my brother.”

William regarded his daughter’s features.  How he had fathered such an extraordinary child he did not know.  His eyes moist, he did not want to admit twas more likely due to sentiment than old age.  God had been good to him; better than he deserved.  Closing his eyes, he lay quiet long enough that Millicent set his hand on his stomach, thinking he had fallen asleep.  But as she rose to leave, William spoke, his voice taking on an ethereal quality, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

“Ahhh, what a handsome woman Sherlock’s mother was; she shined, like a pearl amongst swine.  With long ebony hair, she had skin so pale she looked almost to be an apparition.   Not a malicious one, but as a heavenly being who bestowed upon us her goodness, making us mere mortals feel clumsy and unworthy.  Why she fell in love with me, I do not know, but I was wise enough to marry her before she discovered her error.  And quick?  Oh, my.  Never had I known any to be so bright, whether they be man or woman.  Well, at least until Sherlock came along.”  A soft chuckle escaped William as he reminisced about the willful child who had brought him such joy.  And yes, consternation, too.  But mostly joy.

William opened his eyes and touched Millicent’s arm.  “Tis rude of me, child; I mean no disrespect to your mother.  A fine woman she was. Every bit as fine as Sherlock’s mother. But tis something about a first love; it takes one’s heart captive and holds it tight in its warm embrace, as if no harm can come to you.  I think twas why I when I discovered what I thought to be her betrayal, I went a little mad.”

“What was her name, Father?  Sherlock’s mother?” Millicent asked, enraptured by his memories.  She was not jealous of his love for Sherlock’s mother.  Though her mother and father’s love had not been a demonstrative one, it had been a strong love, based on mutual respect and understanding.  He had been beside himself when she died.

“Laila,” he said softly.  Twas a beautiful name, one that had not laid on his lips in many a year.      

“And what was Sherlock like?  You said he was brighter than Laila.  He must have been a very smart boy, indeed.”  She smiled, encouraging her father to continue.

“He was.  By God, he was.  Even at three years old, when I last saw him, I knew Sherlock be something special.  A precocious boy, smarter than lads of nine or ten.  Almost as tall, too.  And the _things_ that would spout from his mouth, ha!  He would shock everyone, what with that serious little man-child face saying whatever came to mind, be it good or injurious.  More than once a guest left, never to return, so shaken were they by his cleverness.  Very wearing he was, always talking, always questioning.  His mother and I could not keep up with him so thirsty was he for knowledge, though, just as oddly, he would sometimes go for days without a sound coming from him.  We commissioned a tutor to come live with us, but the poor soul said the little boy was too much for him to handle.”

His words trailing off, the smile that had lit William’s face whilst he spoke of Sherlock, faded.

“Yes, all was, dare I say, blissful, until one day I chanced upon the servants gossiping in the great hall.  They did not know I had arrived home from my journey, and I heard one, Josef, boasting he had taken Laila as a lover.  Describing intimacies that would have made me blush were my face not already red from rage.  Furious, I charged him, my dagger already in hand; I did not remember removing it from its sheath.”  So distressing was the memory, he struggled to catch his air.  As his lungs heaved, he coughed, a ragged, moist cough, and with a trembling hand he wiped his chin of the drop of blood that landed there.

Alarmed, Millicent tried to soothe him.   “You have no need to go on, tis upsetting you so.”

William waved her concern away.  “No, I will finish.  Never have I told anyone what happened that day and, though it will not make up for what I have done, it will do me good to release what I have held within me for so long.”

“At least wet your mouth.  You be dry.”  Millicent crossed the room and poured a cup of wine.  Taking it to her father, she lifted his head, drizzling a stream of liquid into his mouth. When William finished, she put the cup down and, turning back to him, waited for him to go on.

“Just as I was about to inflict the mortal wound, Laila rushed into the hall.  ‘William!  What be you doing?!’  I told her the servant had defiled her name, that I be defending her honour.  And before she could stop me I struck my dagger to his chest and he dropped to the ground.  Laila ran over and fell to her knees beside him, pressing her hands to the wound to stop the bleeding.  Twas all the proof I needed that she loved him and had been unfaithful to me. ‘Whores be not welcome in my home!’ I shouted at her.  I pulled her up from the floor by her hair.  As I dragged her to the door, she pleaded with me, but what she said I did not know, so engulfed with fury was I.  I never saw her again.”

“Oh, Father!  How terrible for you!  But what else could you have done?”  Millicent dabbed a cloth at the moisture that had collected on William’s brow. 

“I was young and foolish, blinded by jealousy.  At the time, I thought twas the right thing to do,” William’s breath hitched, as if he might weep. “But never did I think she would take my son; three days later, Sherlock went missing.  Never did I think she would be clever enough to hide him from me for so long.  We searched for him for years, but he was not to be found.  It causes me no small amount of shame that I admitted defeat; I should never have stopped looking for him.  When I became ill, I knew twas time to try again.  A grown man he would be, and I had little doubt that despite his disadvantages he would find himself a worthy profession, perhaps a physician or a clergyman. I did not think it would be so difficult to find him, especially if his name not be changed, but alas, I suppose twas too much to wish for.

“The worst of it was, I later learned Laila had not been unfaithful.  Twas another Laila, a young woman from the city of whom the servant had spoken.  But twas too late, my Laila and Sherlock were gone.  Forever, it seems.  Laila, I have no hope of seeing; I cannot blame her for never wanting to be in my presence again after how I treated her.  But Sherlock?  Tis my greatest regret I am not able to see him one last time before I die.”

“Gareth will come back soon, father. I _know_ it.  Do not cry, Father, please do not cry.  He will come with Sherlock, and you will be able to leave this world happy.”  Millicent leaned down and kissed her father’s cheek.

A sad smile settled on William’s mouth, his thin lips almost disappearing.  “Your words to God’s ears, but I already be happy, my dear.  I have you, have I not?” He tried to bring light to his eyes, failing. “But if Gareth does find Sherlock and bring him home, tell my son I love him?  Tell him I love him very much and I always have.  And…and tell him I be sorry, so sorry…”

Consumed by his grief, William turned his head away.  Millicent tucked the covers at his neck, and easing herself from the bed, went back to the chair and picked up her embroidery.  Praying that Gareth would return with Sherlock.  Before twas too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ho, hi ho, off to California and Vegas I go!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my Third Eye (And fourth. Yes, she has two.), the Divine Miss Burning_Up_A_Sun, Beta.

“I love thee, too, John.  I love thee, too.” 

The declaration Sherlock had made nearly a week ago echoed in John’s head, distracting him from his task at hand.  Instead of concentrating, he counted the times Sherlock had called him “Sir John” in the days since he told him it meant “I love you.”  57.  Coyly, John had decided on “Ily” for Sherlock, short for “ **I L** ove **Y** ou.”  When Aldus had asked why he called Sherlock “Eely,” a quick lie had formed on his tongue. “He looks like an eel, do you not think?  All long and thin and squirmy?”  Since then, Aldus called Sherlock “Eely,” unbeknownst to him telling Sherlock he loved him.    Sherlock was not amused. 

John looked down at the sorry sight before him, the mangled squirrel that looked as if it had been skinned by 2 year old. Sighing, John dropped his knife to the side. 

Difficult for him to be idle, John had offered to prepare their meal that night, but truly, twas so _hard._ The double meaning made him giggle— _giggle._   He wanted to admonish himself, his reputation as a dignified Knight would be in danger were he to continue tittering like a maiden ogling a handsome young man, but he could not.  In love he was, and nothing could pop the bubbles of happiness floating around inside of him.

“Let me do that.  Rest, Sir John.” 

In his fog, John had not noticed Cedric stood by him.

Cedric picked up the knife John had dropped and, in quick order, finished skinning the fresh game.  A whittled stick, sturdy enough to hold it over the fire, pierced the animal from end to end.  “Ready for roasting,”   Cedric said, holding it up to regard his handiwork.

John considered his squire.  Since leaving Lieth, Cedric’s outbursts had become a distant memory.  He had always had a chivalrous bent, but these past few days Cedric almost fallen over himself trying to be useful, helping John and Aldus, even Sherlock, without being asked. 

_Could it be he has seen the error of his ways and is making reparations?_

“Do not mind if I do; thank you, Cedric,” adding in the most casual tone he could effect, “I will see how the lessons are progressing.” Anxious to join Sherlock where he and Aldus sparred, John grumbled to himself in annoyance when Cedric kept talking.

“Oh! Sherlock is doing splendidly!  Splendidly indeed.  Quite a fine swordsman he is turning out to be and, given a different circumstance, I think he would make a fine squire.  But tis nothing to be done about it; Eduard is gone, God be with him, and you will have to suffice with the two of us for the time being.”  Cedric stooped, stoking the fire to keep it burning whilst he readied the rest of their meal.

Sherlock?  A squire?  John’s brow pinched in surprise.  Coming from Cedric, this be a high compliment indeed given that less than a week ago he had accused Sherlock of murdering Eduard.  Obviously, Cedric had come to see Sherlock’s merit. 

“Make Sherlock a squire; what a fine idea!  Why did I not think of that?”

Cedric stood up and, turning toward John, blinked. “You cannot be serious.”

“You be the one who raised the idea.”

“Twas said in jest, Sir.  Tis a great responsibility to be a squire, taking years of training.  And tis not a responsibility just anyone can be placed into lightly.  Certainly not a servant.”

John clapped Cedric’s shoulder and turned them so they faced the clearing where Sherlock and Aldus were hard at work. 

“Look at him. He takes direction well.” John chuckled.  “Most of the time.   His skills do not match yours and Aldus’s, but he has come far this week.  And he knows his way around a horse.  I see no reason why he could not assume the duties of a squire.” 

Cedric shrugged John’s hand off. “But, Sir.  He be too old, and neither has he served as a page. I hope—I hope you do not think of training him for knighthood; twould tarnish the title.  No, tis not right.” 

“No one need know his true history.  He may not have served as a page, but what are pages and squires but servants?  Besides, I think even you cannot deny he bears the dignity of one destined for greatness; look at the way he holds his head, his body.  He exudes a confidence that cannot be taught. And as you say, we could use the extra hands.  Twould be to his choosing, of course; I would not force upon him something he does not want.  If I know him, and I think I do a bit, he would be delighted at the challenge.” 

“I think he would be delighted to do anything you ask.  Erm, what I mean is he is quite amenable to helping you, or any of us.  I admit, I be wrong about him.” 

Something in Cedric’s tone troubled John, but excitement at the prospect of spending hours in close proximity with Sherlock as he trained him (and it _would_ be he who trained him), caused John to push aside the seed of doubt that Cedric be not as cooperative as he appeared.

“Tis settled.  I will make the proposition.”  Abruptly leaving Cedric before he could continue the conversation, John walked over to the clearing, sitting down with his back against a tree to watch Sherlock and Aldus. 

With an unimpeded view of Sherlock, John admired the smooth lines of his lithe body as he moved.  His fighting stance was near perfect and if he be not as accurate as he could, his timing be as impeccable as a seasoned fighter.  Aldus had been right; Sherlock be a quick learner.  The teacher struggled to keep ahead of his student.

Sweat trickled from Sherlock’s forehead into the concave of his neck.  Down into his sweat-soaked blouse where the fabric clung to his torso, contouring strong, able muscles…leaving little to the imagination.  Twas most provocative.

Yes, twas hard, so hard. 

John gathered his knees to him.  The position put pressure on his burgeoning erection, but twas no more uncomfortable than would be the embarrassment should someone see his growing bulge.

 _Shite, I must take a walk and rid myself of this beast between my legs._ Standing up, John dusted himself off and headed toward the woods.  Solitude be a rare commodity when traveling with several other men.

“Sir John!”

Sherlock called after him and, telling Aldus he needed a break, he trotted to where John stood, waiting for him. 

“A stubborn man thou be, John,” Sherlock huffed, his breathing laboured from the strenuous exercise.  “Tis better thee not walk alone. I know thou say thee be capable of taking care of thyself, but I will come with thee.  Two swords be better than one.”

John studied the resolute face above him, his heart heavy.  As much as he wanted Sherlock to join him, he knew what the answer must be.  No.

Before, when Sherlock had cautioned John he had best not go alone, a murderer perhaps be about, John had scoffed at his concern, stating that if he could not defend himself then what a sorry Knight he be.  He had told Sherlock that he needed to stay and practice and that when he be skilled enough to defend himself he may join him; John had said he did not want to have to defend him, too, in the event of danger.

The truth be, John did not trust himself to be alone for too long with Sherlock.   Yes, they had managed slivers of time away from prying eyes.  Fleeting moments when they engaged in heated kisses, their hands feverishly exploring one another.  Never below the waist.  Too-brief snatches of time when they had leaned into each other and he had felt Sherlock’s hardness outlined against his body, stirring his loins.  But always they were interrupted by a squire calling out for John to solve some trifling problem, or Aldus searching for Eely, ready to begin a lesson.  And they would pull apart, the air heavy with words unsaid.  Passion unfulfilled.

But, the bigger problem--John questioned whether Sherlock wanted him _that_ way.  Yes, Sherlock be familiar with intimacy, but not by his own accord, and John suspected that whilst Sherlock may not be a virgin in body, emotionally he may be.  Kisses and declarations of love be one thing, but sex be another. 

“No, love, I am sorry.  Not this time.”  Seeing Sherlock’s scowl, John beseeched, “I love thee.”   How he wanted to reach out and touch him. To sweep aside the lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead and soothe his troubled brow.    

John walked a circuitous route, close enough to their camp he would hear a disturbance, but deep enough into the woods he would not be seen.  Deciding upon a thicket that be not so dense the branches would poke or scratch him, he sought refuge behind a large bush.  Relief be close.  _Thank God._ He did not know how much more torment he could take. 

Releasing his cock from its prison, John slicked his palm with spit and took ahold of himself.   Stifling a groan, he held himself with a firm hand; it almost hurt, so enlarged be he that he could not have been any tighter.  _Christ.  Had I had to wait any longer I might have burst.  That man will be the death of me_.  Closing his eyes, he stroked his length.  He pictured Sherlock’s heaving chest, his nipples straining through his blouse.  Pictured thighs he knew to be strong and sinewy.

Good Lord how he wanted Sherlock.

Clamping his mouth shut so as not to let loose any sound, he breathed heavily through his nose.  His hand moved faster and faster along his hardness, hastening his descent into a Sherlock-paved Hell, until a flash of white hot heat seared his brain and he released his need.  Gasping, a moan escaped him, and he prayed should someone have heard it they thought it one of the larger animals they had seen rambling through the forest.

Cleaning up as best he could, John walked back to camp, a melancholy washing over him.  Yes, he had released his need, and as good as it had felt he knew it had not felt as good as had he been with Sherlock himself.  It had done nothing to sate his longing for Sherlock.  His need to feel Sherlock on his skin.  Taste Sherlock’s skin. 

Aldus and Cedric paid no heed to him when he arrived back at the camp, their conversation animated, punctuated by flailing hands and raucous laughter.  _At least someone be having fun._

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes unreadable. 

_What be he thinking? Be he angry with me?_

For the first time in days he could not tell what Sherlock said to him and, sinking deeper into a dour mood, John bid all an early good night.

* * *

 

Falling into troubled sleep, John dreamed of Sherlock.  Of a sumptuous bed adorned with silk sheets and mounds of pillows on which they languished.   Of a sea of milky white skin that went on.  And on.  And on.  Skin that be his to lavish with his tongue, his hands.  A bed where they exhausted themselves, coupling for days on end, leaving their sanctuary only long enough to tend to their most basic needs.  Servants brought them food and he fed Sherlock by hand.  And when they were fed and rested, they would love each other again with no need to stifle their cries of pleasure, for twas their home, _their_ home, and twas no shame in loving each other…

John awoke to a hand clasped over his mouth.

_Again?!_

His eyes opened to a shadow hovering over him.  Twas dark enough inside the tent he could not discern the face, but the silhouette of a lanky body and wavy hair, curls sprung loose in messy disarray, gave Sherlock away. Sherlock’s head tipped to the side, telling him to follow.  John removed himself quietly from bed and tiptoeing, trailed the tall figure outside.  The hand that took his gripped him firmly, leading the way, and John’s pulse pounded in his ears, blocking out the chatter of the night’s creatures. 

Sherlock strode with determination directly to a hollow in the woods that John guessed he must have chosen ahead of time.  And when they stopped, Sherlock took John’s face into his hands and kissed him.  Pressed his lips hard against John’s and pushed his tongue into his mouth, claiming him.

_Thou has no need to claim me.  I am thine.  All thine._

A low growl rumbled within Sherlock’s chest, and he pulled back to see all of John’s face.  “This time I am not letting thee get away.  Do not be so foolish as to tell me again thou does not love me; I may take thy word for it.” 

John sucked in a breath as Sherlock’s hand drifted slow and sure down his neck, pausing only to examine with his fingertip the brown dot that stood out against his fair skin . Unbuttoning John’s shirt, Sherlock feathered his fingers across his chest, across the plain of his belly.  Down to where he cupped the bulge at the intersection of John’s legs. 

“Christ!”  John hissed under his breath.  He bent his head until his forehead rested on Sherlock’s chest, refraining from reminding Sherlock how dangerous it was to be together, though twas no less true than before.  He picked up Sherlock’s hand and rested it somewhere less heady.  His hip.

“What is it, John?  What bothers thee? Does thou not want me?”

“Did that feel as if I do not want thee?  I do. I _do._ But I fear I be taking advantage of thee.  Has thou--has thou done this before?”

Sherlock’s nose scrunched in confusion.  “Done this before?  I distinctly remember twas thee in the stable.  Does thou not remember?”

“Of course, I remember.  How could I forget?”  John’s groin tightened at the memory.  He nibbled at the finger that Sherlock slid into his mouth, sucking it. Savouring it with the roll of his tongue.   _Dammit, thou distracts me!_   With great strength of will, he took one last teasing taste and pushed the finger out.

“What I mean, love, is has thou ever done it for thyself.  I mean, I know thou…” Anger surged through John as he thought of the bastards who coerced Sherlock to “perform.”  Steeling himself, he plowed through.  “What I ask is, has thou done it for love?  For thy own desire?  Not because thou be compelled or because thou thought it ought be done. ”

“Oh.”  Sherlock seemed surprised at the thought.  “No, but what difference does it make?  The results be the same.”

_What difference does it make?  Christ!_

“A world of difference,” John said, but he realised he had not, either, ever coupled out of love.  Lust, yes.  A means to an end, yes.  But never for love.  And never with a man.  He searched Sherlock’s eyes, shadowed by the night.  In a very real sense they were both new to this situation.   New to love and new to true physical affection.

“Does thou want me?”  John asked.

“Do not be ridiculous.”  Sherlock kissed him.

“I mean, does thou want me, _this_ way?”  John picked up Sherlock’s hand where it still lay on his hip and moved it back to his groin.  Squeezing Sherlock’s hand, he made him cup it.

“How could thou think I do not want thee?”  Sherlock challenged, taking John’s hand to cup his own groin.  “Do not be so shocked; I know why thou goes on thy ‘walks.’ Thou be not the only one with needs.” 

As absurd as it be for them to be holding each other in such a manner, arguing about who did and who did not want whom, John found it thrilling, and he struggled to breathe.

“Kiss me.  Now.”  John said.

“Hmph.  Thou commands me as if it were a hardship.”

“No, love, not a hardship, a necessity.  Now shut up and kiss me.”       

Their mouths clashed, lips against lips.  Tongue against tongue.  Their noses bumping into each other in their haste. John’s frantic hands ran down Sherlock’s waist, tugging his blouse from his breeches.  They tucked up inside, slowing to caress warm, firm flesh.  He sighed.  The pounding in his ears now a dull roar, he took a deep breath for courage; he was about discover uncharted territory.  And slipping his hands into Sherlock’s breeches he loosened the band and eased them down until they dropped to the ground. 

_Fuck oh fuck oh fuck_

As much as he wanted to touch it, John avoided the penis he knew would be heavy and full; there would be time soon enough.  Instead, he reached around Sherlock’s slim hips to grab a buttock in each hand and massaged them.  Tentatively at first, but emboldened by Sherlock whimpering against his mouth,   he began kneading them in earnest, bringing their hips together in rhythmic undulation.

A moan vibrated against John’s mouth and Sherlock pushed his hips harder into John, prompting a tortured moan in reply.

Unable to breath, John tilted his head back.   The honourable man in him felt the need to make sure one more time, “Be thee all right?  May I go on?”  

“Mmm hmm.”  As if in a trance, Sherlock hummed his answer.  His eyes closed, his body swaying.

John took in the wonder that be Sherlock’s face. The thick, silken curls that framed it like a palace treasure. The fine cheekbones.  The plump lips that begged to be kissed.  Well and often.  _Beautiful.  Thou be so, so beautiful._

Trembling, John freed a hand, slicked it, and filled it with Sherlock’s penis. Thicker than his own, twas not unlike the rest of Sherlock.  Tall and proud, with a sensuous exterior. His own member twitched in response to a pleasure unlike any he had ever known.  

_Breathe, John.  Breathe._

Sherlock’s kisses grew more urgent, less focused, falling on the side of John’s mouth. His hips thrusting in rhythm with John’s hand as it pulled him, strong and hard. 

John floated on a cloud, as if detached from the rest of him.  No longer conscious of telling his body to move, it just _did_ , guided by a force from within.  By a force as old as Time itself.

His grip firm on Sherlock’s shaft, John’s fingers inched deeper into the cleft between his buttocks until his finger pressed against Sherlock’s entrance. Faster and harder they moved as one.  John’s breath left him in pants and Sherlock muffled his cries in the shelter of John’s neck.  And when Sherlock bit his tender skin, John found Sherlock’s nipple with his mouth, pinching it between his lips to drown his own cries.

When Sherlock neared his peak, as he would have for himself, John pumped Sherlock’s shaft, twisting his grip as he closed in on its crown.  Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s back, and he held on as his body stiffened, warm fluid flowing over John’s grip.   Only then did John allow his own release, feeling his thighs become warm and sticky.

His strength ebbing, John held Sherlock until they were both completely spent.  He moved his arms up Sherlock’s back to fold him in his arms, kiss his neck, his curls. Salt his lips with fresh sweat.  Murmur words of love. 

Securing their breeches, John eased Sherlock down to the ground with him, settling him in his lap to cradle his pliant body in his arms.

“I love thee, John, I do.”  Sherlock, on the verge of sleep, was too tired to do much other than wilt against John.

“I know sweetheart, I love thee, too.” Stroking Sherlock’s hair, John rocked him as he would a babe.  Thinking how much he loved Sherlock.

Wondering, as two men in love, what the future held for them. 

With a lifelong loyalty to the King, the idea that came to John startled him.  _Sherlock and I will travel to Germany, hire ourselves out as mercenaries._

_Yes!  That is it!  We still could not be open about our relationship, but it would give us freedom to spend more time alone than we have here.  Perhaps we would even be able to share the same bed._

He looked down at the sleeping man in his arms.  He could not see Sherlock’s face, but he did not have to; he already knew it well, loved it well.  He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and lightly laid his chin atop it, dreaming of a new life together.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my marvelous beta Burning_Up_A_Sun!

Mother?”

Laila lifted her head at the sound of her son’s voice.  She had been so preoccupied folding laundry she did not hear Colin come home. 

“Colin.  Tis so late already?  Sit down, I will bring thee some supper-” 

“In a moment? There be something that has been nagging at me, and I respect your privacy, I do, but…” 

_Why does he stand there?  What be so difficult to ask?_ “You know you can ask me anything.  I have never denied thee.” 

She heard Colin move to the stool beside her and sit down.  _Why does he hesitate_?  True, Laila had never been one to offer information about her personal life; why burden the boy with her the minute details of a boring life?  But neither had she ever avoided answering any question he asked. 

“The other day when I came home there be two mazers at the sink.  You so rarely have visitors and I…” The end of his question hung in the air.

Laila struggled to keep her smile on her face, to keep her hands moving.  _The mazers.  How brainless of me not to have washed and put them away.  Of course, he noticed._   Though they did not have the same fathers, Colin be so very much like his half-brother Sherlock, observant and quick-witted.    

“Be it the physician?”  Colin asked.  “You have told me your cough be not so bad, but I hear you gasping for air late in the night when you think I be asleep.  You look so tired much of the time, and I be uneasy.”

Smoothing out the shirt in her lap, Laila folded it with far more precision than necessary, buying time to think of a response.  Yes, she had a cough that would not go away, but that be not why she be tired.  The truth be, she be tired of lying, tired of hiding her past; she had never seen any good in telling her son she had once been a wealthy woman who lived in a castle.  She had never told him he had a brother and worried she be wrong not to do so. Twas selfish of her, she knew, but she could not risk William finding out where she be, her very life could depend on it.  

But now?  After all these years be it wrong to keep Colin and Sherlock from each other? Was she wrong to keep Sherlock from William?  Whatever the consequences for her, even death, would not any possible reconciliations be worth the outcome? 

“Mother, please answer me.  Your silence scares me.” 

Colin reached for her hand, and she set the shirt aside to hold his hand between hers.  His hands were so very much like hers, rough from work, graced with long, slender fingers.  Strong hands that laboured to bring food to their table, put a roof over their head.  But he did not have knobby joints, swollen and painful from age as did she.  Oh, to be young again.

“Mother?”  His voice became urgent, her unwillingness to answer concerning him.  He clasped her hand, careful not squeeze it hard enough to hurt her.

Laila turned her head toward him, wishing for the thousandth time she could see his sweet face, but twas for naught.  All she saw was the same wall of darkness that had been her curse for far too long.

If she did tell him the truth of her visitors, where did she start? With William, her first husband, who Colin did not know existed?  Or with the brother he had never met?  He would have so many questions, rightfully so.  Not all she would want to answer, not all to which she would want to admit.  But she knew in her heart twas time.  Time to tell Colin the truth about her past, and his.

_Colin, thou has a brother._ That be a simple place to start, but Laila had trouble saying the words.  Her mouth parted, and no sound came out.

“Yes?”  His hand clasped hers a little harder, his apprehension palpable.  

“Colin, thou has a brother.”  She pursed her lips.  How Laila wished she could see the expression on his face; his silence told her nothing.  Or maybe it did.  Perhaps he be horrified that she lied to him about something so important, and would never speak to her again.  Her shoulders drooped in shame. Not for the life she had lived, but for the secrets she had held so close to her.

“A brother?”  Colin finally spoke, his voice filled not with the condemnation she feared, but with wonder.

“A brother?”  He repeated.  “ _I_ have a brother? _I_ have a _brother._   Mother, tis _wonderful_ news.  Where be he?  When will I meet him?  How old be he?  Does he look like me?  Wait, do we have the same father?  Why have I never met him?”

And there it be, the difficult question.  Why had Colin never met Sherlock?

“Thou not be angry?  That I have not told thee about him?”

“No, Mother, as I said, tis wonderful news!  _I_ have a brother!” 

Colin laughed, a deep “ha!” that told her that he indeed be happy at the thought of having a sibling.  Laila knew he had always been disappointed that he had no brothers or sisters.  As a boy, he had had no one to play games with when she would not let him go outside.  As a fatherless young man, no one to share the burden of an ailing mother.

“Yes, dear, thou has a brother.  His name be Sherlock.  He be 4 years older than thee.”  She tried to remember what other questions had spilled forth in Colin’s burst of curiosity.  “And yes, he looks very much like thee.  So much like him, in fact, that at times I forgot twas not him who I ran after in the streets.  The two of you looked so much alike that often, when thee be younger, I called thee by the wrong name.  Thou would put thy hands on thy little hips and say ‘Mother!  My name be Colin!’  So indignant you were, that thy dotty old mother could not get thy name right.”  Laila smiled, lost in her reminisces.  “Precocious little boys, you both were.  Always so curious, always causing trouble.”

Laila let out a deep sigh.  Twas such a relief to have her secret out in the open.  To speak Sherlock’s name aloud to someone who could listen, rather than to an empty room where no one heard it, as if he had never existed. 

“Sherlock.  What an unusual name,” Colin exclaimed.

Laila laughed.  “Yes, but fitting.  A special name for a special boy.  As be thee,” she added; she did not want to give him cause to be jealous.  “His given name be Scirlock, after his grandfather.  When he grew old enough to himself say it, it always came out ‘Thirlock’.  Eventually, he called himself Scirlock, for some reason the ‘h’ still be there.  We did not have the heart, or the patience, to keep correcting him, so from then on, ‘Sherlock’ he be called.”

“Why have I not met Sherlock, Mother?”  Colin asked.  Removing his boots, he set them by the door and sat back next to her.

She be not surprised that though this be the question most on his mind, he did not push, he did not press.  No, he quietly bided his time, listening to her meanderings, waiting for her to pause.  He had always been a kind child, growing into a thoughtful young man.  He had none of the biting anger that she had seen in his older brother over the years.  But then, how could Laila blame Sherlock for his anger?  In his eyes, his mother had abandoned him, leaving him without a family.

“Let me pour some ale and then I will tell you all you want to know.  I suspect it will take a while.”  Laila rose to fill their mazers, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts.  To think about how much she be willing to tell the son who be with her, about the one who be not.

Sitting back down, Laila started her story from the beginning.  “Long before I met your father, when I was but a girl, I met a young man named William.” 

She told Colin the story that, unbeknownst to her, William had told Millicent days before.  Instead of a describing a pretty young woman, she spoke of a brave, handsome man with whom she fell in love.  Instead of the anger of a husband who thought his spouse unfaithful, she told of a bewildered wife who struggled to understand how her husband could think she loved another.  Of her despair at being torn from her child and her home because of a horrible misunderstanding.

Tears fell to her cheeks as she talked; the grief and sadness from those dark days had never entirely faded.

Colin sprang up to fetch a cloth, bringing it back to dry her wet face. “I am so sorry.  You did not deserve to be treated in such a way.”

Laila sniffed back the rest of her tears, willing herself to be strong.  Twas not difficult; she had had much practice.

“Tis nothing to be done about it,” she said.  “Yes, it hurts still, but had that not happened I would not have you.  Out of every darkness shines a bright light.”  She held his hand, patting her leg with it to reassure him how important he be to her.  Yes, she would not have Colin had William not thrown her from the castle as if she were a dirty beggar, but why could she not have had both sons, together?  Twas a sadness from which she did not think she would ever recover.

“What happened to my brother?  Does he still live with William?” 

“No.  I be dazed when I be cast from my home, but I knew William would be leaving again in two days’ time.  On the third day, when I be certain he be far away, I stole into the castle in the middle of the night with the help of the cook who took pity on me.  In Sherlock’s room, the nurse slept in the rocking chair, and my heart beat so hard I be sure it would wake her.  I went to Sherlock, who be awake, looking at me.  And, as if he knew, he did not make a sound.” Laila chuckled. “I imagine he did know; wise beyond his years, he was.  He looked up at me with those eyes as blue and bright as the midday sky and held his arms out.  I grabbed him and snuck back out, knowing if I be caught I would be dead.”

“How courageous of you!” 

“No, no, twas not courage, twas desperation.  I could no more leave my boy behind than tell myself not to breathe.  Tis no difference.  The love of one’s child be a powerful thing; thou will discover this when thou becomes a father.”  Laila took a sip of ale, wetting her mouth.  Twas so much more to tell.

“And what did you do then?  Obviously you both escaped safely.”

“We did, but I had nowhere to go.  I could not go my family or to friends; I would be too easily found.  I stayed in the city a few days, always looking over my shoulder, fearful that I would be caught at any moment.  I stole a hooded cloak to shield my face and Sherlock’s, and whilst the shop owners turned their backs, I stole necessities.  Of this I be greatly ashamed.  Never would have I thought I would steal; I know I have burned it into thee tis wrong to do.”

“You had no choice.  You could not starve, and you could not let Sherlock go without.”

“I know thou be right, but it still grieves me.”  Her hands restless, Laila picked up another shirt, the routine soothing her.  “After several days of gathering provisions, I set outside walls of the city.  I be so alone, so frightened, a woman on her own with a small child, and with no plan but to escape as far away as possible.” 

A heavy breath of air left Laila; reliving the past wore her more than she thought it would. 

Colin rose and, taking their emptied mazers, set them on the table.  The folded shirt sitting on her lap he put atop the neat pile of laundry to her side.  “You be tired.  I think you have had enough for one night.”   

“I think thou be right.  I want to tell thee the rest, I do, but tis late and I need to rest.  Tomorrow?  Will you wait for the rest until tomorrow?”  Laila took the arm offered her and lifted herself from her stool.

“One more question?  And then I will let you be?”

“Of course.”

They walked together toward her bed arm in arm, Colin releasing her when they reached it.

“Where be Sherlock, now, Mother?  Does he live in Leith?  I want to meet him.”

Somehow each question be harder to answer than the last.  Not because Laila did not know the answers, but because they meant a meeting between the past and the present, the past and the future.  And what that meeting might mean. 

“Thou be old enough to do as thou wish, but he does not know about thee.  He does not even remember I be his mother, so young he be when we were separated.  And I do not know how I feel about him discovering the truth.”

“Tis yours to choose?  He, like I, be a grown man.” 

Colin said this gently, but there be a determination in his voice that told Laila twas only a matter of time until her two boys met.   She knew he be right; they both be grown men, entitled to make their own decisions.  Ignoring the last remnants of doubt that said she should not reveal where Sherlock be, she told Colin what he wanted to know.

“He be a servant in the Talbot Manor.”

Laila flinched at Colin’s gasp; as she had known he would, he knew exactly who Sherlock be.

“The tall, thin bloke? The one who looks down his nose at everyone, and never says anything unless tis a sharp rebuke?  He? _He_ be my brother?” 

An apology on the tip of her tongue for the manner in which Colin’s brother conducted himself, Laila changed her mind.  She knew the _real_ Sherlock.  The young man who covered up a kind heart with thorns, like a rose defending itself from harm.  In his place, Colin would have done the same, protecting himself from the hurt of a demanding life with no one to whom he could turn for solace.

“Yes, _he_ be your brother, and-”

Interrupted by a quick kiss on the cheek and a hurried “good night,” Laila heard Colin gather up his outer garments and boots, and rush out the door.  Not even taking the time to shut it.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double the chapters, double the pay today, Burning_Up_A_Sun, ha ha ha. Thank you SO much!

“Wake up, honey.  We had best get back to our tents.”

“But I be comfortable.”  

Still resting in John’s lap after their coupling, it annoyed Sherlock that he had roused him.  He felt contented in John’s strong arms and did not want to move.  _Has anyone ever held me this way?_   _Perhaps when I be a child, but twas so long ago._

“I be comfortable, too, and could stay like this forever, but if the squires discover we be not in our beds…”

Instead of rising, Sherlock leaned into John.  His head pillowed by John’s soft middle, he breathed in his scent, memorising it.  Twould not be with him forever; he would want to recall it when John be no longer a part of his life.  Twas a fact of life, no one important stayed.   Not that there had been many important people.

“Just a bit,” John said softly, hugging Sherlock tighter to him.

“Beautiful.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock gazed at the stars that would soon hide behind the ominous clouds moving across the sky.

“Yes, thou be beautiful.”

“Not _me_ , the stars.” 

“Ahhh, yes, the stars be beautiful, but they be not of what I speak.  Thou, thou my love, be more comely than all the stars put together.” 

“Hmph,” Sherlock grunted, but it pleased him to know John thought his features agreeable.

“So, uhm, Sherlock, whilst thou napped, an idea came to me.”

“Shall we find a town crier at the next city and announce it?  I know tis such an unusual occasion—ow!  That hurt!”  Sherlock rubbed his arm where John had pinched him.

“Arse.” John kissed Sherlock’s temple, the tip of his nose, his mouth.

“So what be this grand idea?”  Sherlock stifled a yawn; it must have been halfway to dawn. 

“Well, I be thinking, uh.  I be thinking…”

“Yes, I had that impression.  Say it, John.  About what be thee thinking?” 

“Thou knows I love thee, yes?” 

_What an odd question._ Sherlock shifted so he could better see John’s face.  _Why be he so nervous?  So serious?_

“Yes, it has come to my attention. Very _vigorously,_ as I recall.” 

Coughing a laugh, John nodded.

“I be thinking…”

“John!  Out with it!”  Sherlock did not yell, but John be testing his patience.  Why must he make everything so difficult?

“I love thee and I do not want us to ever be apart and I want to live with thee and sleep with thee and I want us to move to Germany.” 

As rushed and strung together as John’s words had been, Sherlock understood what he said, but he did not understand what he _said._

Oh. 

_Oh!_

“Thou, me…”

“Yes, thou and me.  I know twas not at all an elegant proffer, but, I love thee, Sherlock.  And I want us to be together.  Always.”

“Germany?”  John had lost him.

“Thou becomes quite an expert with thy sword and in Germany we be paid for soldiering; it will not be so easy to take my riches with us.  No one will know who we be and we would say we be brothers-”

“John,” Sherlock admonished.  “Brothers?  We look nothing-” 

“Let me finish.  We would say we be brothers and would be housed together, work together.  With our skills, we would be valued.  And when we have secured enough money we would find a cottage somewhere and would not have to worry-”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Why ask the question if thou does not want an answer, especially one in the affirmative?”

John floundered for something to say, settling for “Thou be right, of course.”

“Of course.” 

“I thought thee would want to think about it.  I know how important it is for thee to find thy family, and I do not want to take thee away something tis so important to thee.”

Sitting up, Sherlock took John’s hand, splaying his fingers to weave them through John’s shorter ones.  Watching how they fit so well together.  John be here with him, not some family who may or may not exist.

“John, I know thou thinks tis foolish of me to hope I will find the people who gave me up so long ago and never took the trouble to find me.  As difficult as it be for me to admit, I think thee might be right.  Do not look so surprised! 

“Thou be my family, now. So, yes, the answer be ‘yes.’  I need no more time to think about it.  But, there be one thing I want thee to do for me.” 

John blinked back moisture, unable to hide his emotion.  “Anything.”

“We will not leave the country until after thy tournament.  Tis important to thee, and we will use the time to make plans.  Plus,” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled, “surely thee will win.  We can sell the precious stones that be the victor’s prize, and that cottage of which you speak will be ours much the sooner.”  He swiped the pad of his thumb along the lower lid of John’s eye.  “And do not weep; tis not becoming,” Sherlock said, trying to sound stern but not quite succeeding.  “I like thee happy.” 

“I be happy.” 

The adoration Sherlock saw shining in John’s eyes gave him no doubt twas true.

\-----------------

In his bed, Sherlock laid and thought. 

Thought about John.  About falling in love with him, coupling with him.   _How extraordinary to fall asleep in John’s arms.  I could become quite accustomed to it._ Sherlock had not been guileful when he had told John that he be his family now, but that did not mean he would not try to find answers when they arrived in London.  If he found no answers, that would be that.  But if he did _,_ could he not make room for both?

Thought about Gareth, frustrated he had not found the man who had slain Eduard.  He had been certain that they would be followed, that another attempt would be made on his life.  They had met many people on the road - monks, noblemen, merchants - but none be the man Aldus and Cedric had seen at the alehouse.  It frustrated him that he did not know what the knife looked like, that the boot impressions had been obscured by the muddied water.  Then, should they have met someone they suspected be disguised, he could have inspected their boots, their weaponry.

In a fit of self-disgust, Sherlock threw himself onto his side.  _Stupid! Twas obvious._   _Why did I not think of it before_?  Gareth did not follow them because he believed he _had_ killed the right person.  What a witless error.  Rolling onto his back, Sherlock closed his eyes; morning would arrive soon enough.  He would think then...

Hearing a shout, his body jerked to full consciousness.  _Twas it a dream?_   _Did I fall asleep_? 

“You bastard!”

_Cedric?_  

A sleepy Aldus mumbled, “What be happening?” 

Sherlock bounded from bed, rushing in the direction of the shout, John and Cedric’s tent.  In the direction he heard what sounded to be a scuffle.  Shuffling feet, flesh meeting flesh as if a fight coming to blows.  When he emerged from his tent, he saw Cedric.

“Get back here, you coward!  Let me see your face!” Cedric shouted into the trees.

“Cedric?  What happened?  Where be John? Be he all right?” Great huffs of air left Sherlock’s lungs, and he grabbed Cedric’s shoulders, shaking them to get his attention.

Cedric looked down at his arm.  “I have been stabbed,” he said in wonder as if he just realised it. 

“Where be-,” Sherlock started again, exasperated that Cedric had concern only for himself.  “You be useless.”

The moonlight’s glow did not reach into John’s tent, making it difficult to see, but when he entered, Sherlock saw what appeared to be a man lying down.  Dropping to his knees beside the form, Sherlock reached out.  John.  Dread wound through Sherlock’s limbs, twisted his stomach in alarm.  John be not moving, and no one within hearing distance could have slept through such a noisy upset. 

Resting a hand on John’s chest, Sherlock felt it rise and fall.  Twas a shallow breathe, but twas enough.  It meant John be alive, and Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, grateful for what the movement told him.  Leaning down, “John,” he said quietly.  Nothing.  The second time a little louder, “John,” patting a cool cheek.  Still no response.

“Aldus!” Sherlock yelled with such volume surely all of England would hear him.

“I be here,” Aldus said, panicked, from behind him.  “Be Sir John all right?” 

“Bring me a candle; I need to look for wounds.” 

He could not wait for light.  Sherlock skimmed his hands over John’s body, feeling for a tear in his clothing, a broken bone…blood. Talking to John in a quiet voice whilst he did.  “Thou cannot leave me.  Thou will be all right.  _All right._ Thou will go to tournament and crush thy challengers, and when thou does, thou will turn to smile at me whilst I try, unsuccessfully, I be certain, to hide how proud I am of thee.  Thou _cannot_ die on me, Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge.  Thou _will_ not. I love thee, John…” he said, his voice breaking off.

Sherlock found the offending wound on John’s left shoulder, his fingers leaving John’s body with viscous fluid.  Could only be blood.

_Dammit, where be Aldus?!_

“Be he all right?”  Cedric asked from the edge of the tent.  “Ohh, my arm,” he said, a moan following.

_Why does everyone ask if John be all right?  Does he_ look _all right?_

“Where be Aldus?” Sherlock said, speaking to himself more than to anyone who might be listening.

“Here I be, Eely,”  Aldus said, holding out a burning candle to Sherlock.

“My name be Sherlock,” Sherlock snapped, grabbing it from Aldus.

“But, Sir John-”

“Sir John may call me anything he wishes,” Sherlock retorted unkindly, moving the flame so he could see John’s face.  His breath left him. Twas one thing to feel the wound and know John be injured, twas a devastating other to see John’s face, white and still.  His eyes closed, his mouth slack.  The mouth that so little time ago had kissed him, had told him he loved him.  

Ripping John’s shirt from his shoulder, Sherlock inspected the wound.  Twas a small one, shallow, with a clean edge, and the bleeding already be subsiding.  _Good, very good.  Whoever attacked John be unskilled._ For once Sherlock be grateful for someone’s failings.

Looking over the rest of John with light this time, Sherlock puzzled over what he saw, or more precisely, what he did not see—another, more serious, injury.  _Why be John insensible, still? The wound be not a grave one.  Had he merely fainted he would be awake by now.  Did someone put something in his drink, poison, perhaps?_

Bending down, Sherlock sniffed John’s breathe, unsure if the poison would leave an odor.  But no, John’s breathe smelled of ale.  He dipped a finger in the half-empty mazer sitting on the ground near them, lifting it to his mouth to lick it.  Sliding his tongue around the inside of his mouth, he tasted ale, and ale alone.  _If tis a tasteless poison, I will find out soon enough_.

“Sherlock?”  His voice weak and unsure, John’s eyes flitted open.

“Sir John.” _I love thee._  Relief flooded Sherlock; John be awake.  Forgetting they needed to hide their affections, he laid a hand on John’s cheek, trying to control its tremble so John would not know how fearful he be.

Feebly attempting to sit up, John groaned, dropping his head back down. “Shite, I hurt.  Be thee all right, Sherlock?”  He raised a hand to the top of his head, but had not the strength to lift it all the way, letting it fall back to his side.

“You be stabbed, John, in the shoulder.  Tis not a deep wound; it will heal in no time,” Sherlock reassured him, taking the cloth Aldus handed him to press it against the wound.

“My shoulder?”  John grimaced at the pressure.  “Then why does my head hurt?” 

Sherlock traced his fingers over John's head, finding what John had been seeking.  A bump.  Ahhh, that explained why he had been stunned; he had been hit on the head. 

“Whoever stabbed you hit you on the head. You will have a headache, but your wound be a minor one.  You will be up and about by morn.”  Sherlock did not know if this be true, but he needed John to believe it.  _He_ needed to believe it. 

John nodded, a small, weary gesture that tugged at Sherlock’s heart.  His eyes drifting closed, John breathed out “Ily,” as his head lolled to the side.

Sherlock’s throat so tight he be unsure if he would be able to speak, he managed to utter the only two words that mattered to him.  “Sir John,” he said, hoping John had heard him and, if he did, knew how very much he meant it.

Any kindness that had been in his voice gone, Sherlock turned to Aldus, who still stood nearby. 

“Bring me the salve that we applied to my injuries, clean rags, and water; I will dress his wound.  Cedric, here.”

“I be stabbed, too.  Look.”  Cedric walked over to Sherlock and, twisting his body, showed him his arm.

Sherlock looked, and leaned in to get a closer look; twas not the poor light that caused him to at first miss it.

“Tis no more than a prick. Tell me, what happened?  Who did you see?  Be it Gareth?”  _Maybe I be not wrong after all. Had_ _Gareth for some reason taken his time to attack?_

“I be sleeping.  I heard an ‘umph’; it must have been when Sir John be hit.  Twas dark, but I saw a knife come down and stab him.  I rose to defend Sir John, but as I grabbed the intruder, that must be when he stabbed me.  I tried to overpower him, but he be too strong, and he ran.  He escaped into the woods.”  Cedric jutted his chin out, as if daring anyone to challenge his assertion he had done everything he could.

“Did you see his face?”

“No, twas too dark.  But I think he dropped something.”  Cedric glanced around for the unknown object.  “Ha!  Here it is!”  Bending down, he picked up a knife, taking it to the light to better see it.  “Tis Eduard’s, Sherlock; tis Eduard’s knife!”

Sherlock’s head whipped around from where he had been watching John.

“Keep your voice down,” Sherlock fumed under his breath, taking the knife from Cedric.  He turned it over in his hands, looking for distinct markings.  His finger found the almost illegible “E” scratched into the handle before his eyes did; twas worn down from use.  

_Eduard’s knife. Twas not found after he be killed, and yet it shows up here, now.  It had to be Gareth who attacked John and Cedric.  But how did we not hear him?  Where did he leave his horse?_

Sherlock ran outside the tent in search of where the footprints led, returning inside immediately, for the clouds that had been passing over opened in a sharp downpour, turning the dirt into mud.  As disappointed as Sherlock be that once again he could not track the attacker, he did not want to stray far from John.

“Twas but the one person you saw?”  Sherlock asked, passing Cedric on his way to John.  He perched on the narrow space between John and the edge of the bed. 

“There may have been another one; I cannot be sure.  It all happened so fast,” Cedric hedged.

“One or two, make up your mind.” 

“One.  Just one,” Cedric said, this time more decisively.

“I have what you asked for, Sherlock.”  Aldus entered the tent, handing the supplies to Sherlock. 

Sherlock set about cleaning and dressing John’s wound, careful not to wake him.  He studied John’s face as he worked.  John looked younger when asleep, though not as much as when he laughed.  The corners of his pert mouth tipped up as if he smiled, and pale lashes feathered against the heavy swells of flesh just beneath his eyes.  Sherlock fought to keep his fingers from touching strands of silver hair which peeked out amongst the blond, and a wave of possessiveness surged through him. _Thou be mine; mine and only mine,_ he vowed, surprised at his vehemence.

“Aldus, Cedric,” he said.  Confused by his emotions, he needed to get back to familiar territory.  Thinking.  “I want you to remain awake the rest of the night, guard the area.  I do not think Gareth, if that be who it was, will be so foolish as to return tonight, but we cannot be too careful.”

“But Sherlock, what about _my_ wound?”  Cedric whinged like a spoilt little boy.

_Perhaps John should re-think his choice of squires.  One be a mealy-mouthed child, and the other I suspect be too kind to kill anyone, no matter how skilled a swordsman he be._

Finished wrapping John’s shoulder, Sherlock turned to the squires.

“Tis no more than a flesh wound, Cedric.  Aldus, take these and dress Cedric’s wound, if that be what the scratch be called,” Sherlock said with disdain.  “And then the both of you _will_ stand watch tonight.  I will stay with Sir John and see to his needs.  In the morn we will make a plan.  Now off with you.”  He dismissed them and turned back to John, pulling the blanket up over him; he did not want him to get a chill from the rain-damp air.

“You be not our Knight,” Cedric protested.  “I be the squire of the body; you have no right order me or Aldus.”

Sherlock stood, pulling himself to his full height.  Towering over them, he glared at the two faces: one defiant, the other amiable, if not a bit timid. 

“And where be the _squire of the body_ when Sir John be harmed?  Why did you not protect him?”  Sherlock’s eyes blazed with anger.  “Until Sir John awakes and declares otherwise, _I_ will be in charge.  Now, do as I say.  If you do not like it, I suggest you-”

“I _what_?”  Cedric locked eyes with Sherlock.  The sound of rain pelting the ground filled the air, waiting for one of them to speak.

“Come on, Cedric.”  Aldus tugged at Cedric’s arm, urging him out of the tent.  “He be right, tis what Sir John would tell us to do.  Let me see to your arm and then we can set up a suitable cover from which we can keep post.  We cannot be too careful in case your attacker returns.” 

Aldus dashed back in to grab some of the leftover cloth and then headed outside, a mumbling Cedric lagging after him.

\-----------------

“Why do you try so hard to vex him?  He has done nothing to you.  And you well know he did not kill Eduard.” 

Aldus blotted at a spot of blood and, winding up a thin piece of cloth, he wrapped it around Cedric’s upper arm.  As he tied it, he kept his tongue still; twould do no good to tell Cedric twas but a scratch and needed no special care.

“Eduard’s death I be not sure about until tonight’s attack; it could not have been the servant.  And despite my suspicions I have tried to be kind.  You have seen me this week, tidying for everyone, fetching this and that without being asked, helping with the cooking.” Cedric stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders.  “But tis something else about Sherlock I do not like.  I do not think tis his arrogance; there be no shortage of that in those we meet. 

“Today Sir John told me that you and I be no different than Sherlock, that pages and squires be servants, too.  I disagree; we be different.  We may serve, but tis for a nobler cause than that of a house servant.  We put our lives at risk, but Sherlock?  He sweeps in like a damsel in distress, and with no responsibilities has the same stature as you and me.  Does it not trouble you?”

“Trouble me?  No.  Whoever Sherlock is, or whatever he does, it does not affect me; I have a duty, as do you, and that be to serve Sir John.  Sherlock’s presence does not change that, and anyway, he will be gone soon.  When we get to London, we will part ways.

“Do not be so sure of that.”

Aldus frowned. “What do you mean?”

Cedric looked at his bandage, tugging it to ensure twas secure, and asked, “Did you hear Sherlock tell Sir John he loved him?”

His eyebrows reaching for the sky, Aldus gasped.  “He did?  I mean, I told you I thought they love each other, but tis so bold.”

“He did,” Cedric confirmed.  “I heard him say ‘I love thee, John’ when I went into the tent.  Such liberties he takes.  _That_ is why I do not like him and never will.  And,” Cedric looked around, dropping his voice.

Aldus leaned in.  Whatever Cedric had to tell him must be more outrageous than what Sherlock had said to Sir John.

“And what?”  Aldus whispered.

Bending forward to bring their heads even closer together, Cedric shared his secret.  “Sir John is going to ask Sherlock to be a squire.”

“What?!”

“Shhh, lower your voice; Sherlock need not know I have told you.  Sir John said without Eduard we could use another set of hands, that Sherlock be perfect to take his place.  And when I asked him if he would train him to be a knight, Sir John did not answer.  Which I can only surmise means ‘yes.’”

“No.”  Aldus shook his head in dismay.

“Yes.” 

“I will allow that I have little problem if they indeed be lovers, tis their concern. But for Sir John to make him a squire, tis not right.”

“Yes, _yes._ Tis what I have been saying.  We need to stop this.  Because tis Sherlock, yes, but also, I do not want Sir John to be shamed.  I do not want his reputation to be hurt because he cannot keep it in his breeches.”

“Cedric!”

“Well, tis true.”

“Yes, you be right, tis true.  But what do we do? Tis not our place-“

“Of course, tis our place.  Tis our job to protect him, is it not?  And he needs protecting; he just may not know it.  Be you on my side?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect there will be another big gap until the next chapter. I doubt I'll get one out before my 3 week trip I start next week; I'm not very good about writing while I'm gone. :-(


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Burning_Up_A_Sun for your second pair of eyes!

The smoke from the candle, dirty and biting, nipped at Sherlock’s nostrils.  His nose twitched as he sniffed back the tickle to keep from waking John.  When the urge to sneeze passed, he puffed out the candle’s flame.  Twas nothing more at the moment that Sherlock needed to see; John’s wound be cleaned and he be sleeping. 

Sherlock lied down next to John, facing him.  His eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark and he saw nothing but the outline of John’s form, but he heard his soft, even breaths telling Sherlock that he rested easily.  Rolling onto his stomach, Sherlock laid his hand on the smaller one beside him.  Smaller, yes, but Sherlock knew from experience it be deceptively strong.  Drifting the pads of his fingers over the back of John’s hand, the warmth Sherlock felt there shifted to him.  Not just to his skin, but to his heart.  He traced the length of each pliant finger, pausing at the soft dips in between, letting the intimacy wash over him, ease his worries.  Make him feel complete.  His heartbeat slowed and he closed his eyes, thinking of nothing but John.  Of nothing but how in these last few days his life had taken such turns he would never have conceived.  Turns for the better.  His breathing shallowed as he relaxed into the unfamiliar contact.   Sliding his hand to John’s wrist, Sherlock easily circled it with his fingers, pressing a thumb to the pulse beneath the delicate skin. 

John.                                                                                                                                 

Slipping his hand into John’s and weaving their fingers together, Sherlock lay for some time, stroking John’s pulse point with his thumb. And as he did, the same odd sense of possessiveness Sherlock had felt earlier coursed through him, building in strength until it became rage.  Rage that someone had dared hurt John.  Rage that it been he himself who had hurt John.  No, he had not been the one who had wielded the knife, but twas little difference.  Twas he who the attacker targeted and he had not stopped them.

 _What did I miss?_ Sherlock berated himself.  _Why would Gareth attack John?  Be I hasty in deciding it be Gareth who killed Eduard, or that Eduard’s killer had mistaken the squire for me?  I must go back to the start; what be the facts?  _

Sherlock’s thumb caressed John’s wrist as he thought, filtering what he knew to be true from what he may have so carelessly assumed.  So consumed be he in his contemplations, he be startled when he heard his name.

“Sherlock?”

John stirred beside him, pressing his palm to Sherlock’s, curling his fingers around the larger hand.

“Who else does thou think holds thy hand?  Has thou so many suitors?”  Sherlock kept light both his voice and an answering squeeze to John’s hand.  He turned to look at John.  His eyes having adjusted to the low light he was now able to make out John’s features; such a beautiful sight they were.

John started to chuckle, but managed no more than a “ha” before he sucked in a quick breath.  Righting himself, he said, “Christ, no one I hope; I have no desire to hold Cedric’s hand.  You be all right, love?”

“Yes, John, I be well,” Sherlock said, giving John’s hand another small squeeze.  “I be bored, so I pushed Cedric out to spend time with you.”

“Always the devious one, eh?” 

Sherlock heard the smile in John’s voice.  “So I be told.”  He found the candle and lit it.  Looking at John’s wound he was pleased to see it had not started to bleed again.  And looking into his face, Sherlock was pleased to see the light in his eyes; John already be well on the mend.

“No one else be nearby?”  John asked, his gaze flickering to Sherlock’s lips.

“Only me.”  Sherlock’s heart quickened under John’s attention.

“Give me a kiss, then.”  Tilting his chin up, John parted his lips.

“But thou be in pain, John.”  He did not so quickly forget the small laugh that had jarred John’s injury.

“Tis not my lips that hurt.” John raised his eyes, locking them with Sherlock’s.

Sherlock leaned in, resting his lips on those that moved gently beneath them.  Twas a chaste kiss, warm and soft; a kiss born not of passion, but of love.  A kiss that filled the hollow spaces in Sherlock’s chest.  And he sighed, with reluctance pulling back when John mumbled against his mouth.  

“I am trying to remember what thee said.  That I be hit on the head, and stabbed?  You say you be unharmed, but Cedric and Aldus?”

“Whoever it be entered only your tent.  Aldus and I be unscathed.   Cedric be nicked by a knife, suffered when he fought off your attacker.”  Propping himself up, Sherlock said, “Really, John, what be you thinking when you took Cedric on?  He be like a little girl the way he moans over a tiny scratch.”

A wry smile lifted the side of John’s mouth.  “Thou has no idea.   One time he cut his finger and one would have thought his arm had been fallen off, so dramatic be he, whinging and moaning.  But he has proved to be a faithful squire, and I, for one, would not like to fight opposite him in battle; fierce and fearless, he be.  He charges in as if he were immortal, unconcerned for his own safety.  Tis the kind of man one wants at thy side when stakes be high.”

Sherlock snorted, unconvinced.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” 

“Tell me the truth; how serious be my injury?” 

“It be not bad…”

“The truth, Sherlock.”

“I be no physician, John.”

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighed.  “As wounds go, tis not a serious one.  Tis clean, and not deep.  But it will hamper thy fighting arm.”

Both men fell silent, reflecting on the implications of what Sherlock said.  If John’s deftness be compromised, it meant he could not joust in the tournament.  No tournament meant no prize money.  And no prize money meant no cottage in Germany.  At least not any time soon.

“Sherlock, love?”  John wrested himself onto his good arm, taking his hand out of Sherlock’s and placing it on his arm. “We _will_ be together.  It will just take a little more time.”

“Mmmm hmmm.”  Sherlock turned away from John, not wanting him to see the disappointment on his face that he himself did not fully understand.

“Do not pout,” John said, pulling at Sherlock’s arm.

“I do not pout.”  Sherlock tugged his arm back.

“Yes, thou does.”

Sherlock turned, looking into John’s face, starting to feel the keen loss of never seeing it again.  If John had no need to go to London he would go home, and Sherlock would have to go…somewhere; certainly there would be no place for him in Cambridge.  No, he would revert to his original plan, then, and go on to London.  Alone.

“No,” John said.

“No, what?  I said nothing.” 

“No, thou be not off to London alone.”

“Twas not what I be thinking.” 

“Yes, it is.  Not that I be unconcerned about your safety, but does thou think I will be separated from thee so easily?  No, Sherlock, I am thine, if thou will have me.  Where thou goes, I go.”  John cupped Sherlock’s face.  “I love thee.”

“Ha.  Love.  Tis a fleeting thing, not an unbreakable bond.”

“Tis unbreakable to me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the fire he saw burning in John’s.  How much he wanted to believe what John said.

“You should get some rest.”  Sherlock pulled away and sat up.  He needed to think.

“Thou will stay with me at least until the morning light?  Will thou do that for me?”  His voice a gentle plea, John laid down, losing his fight to remain upright. 

_How can I deny him this small favor, especially when there be nothing else I would rather do?_

“I be at your service, Sir John.”  Sherlock lifted the blanket back up from where it had fallen, tucking the edges about John’s shoulders.

“I love thee, too, Sherlock, so very much…”  Barely were the words out of his mouth when John fell asleep.

Sherlock settled back down beside him, letting the candle burn just a little longer so he could see John’s face.  Vowing that whatever their future held, whether they be together or separate, he would find Eduard’s killer and make sure they could never again cause John harm.

* * *

 

The sun crested the horizon, streaming beams of early morning light through the slits of the tent.  Sherlock had stayed awake all night, keeping watch over John as he slept.  Crafting a plan.  A plan to ensure that John would stay safe from their mysterious assailant.

Sitting up, Sherlock checked John’s dressing and touched the back of his hand to John’s forehead.  No fever.  Good.  Brushing back a wisp of hair that had fallen to John’s face, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s brow, hoping it would not be the last time.  He knew what he planned to do be risky, could well result in his death, but none of them would be safe until the attacker be flushed out of hiding and dealt with, in whatever manner that entailed.

With one last look at the sleeping man, he left the tent.  Instead of finding two squires guarding the camp, Aldus sat alone, warming up meat left from the night before.

“Where be Cedric?”  Sherlock glanced about, displeased that the squire took his responsibility to his knight so lightly.

“I let him sleep,” Aldus said.  “We decided to take turns; twas no need for both of us to stay awake and it does not seem we be in much danger.  Whoever it be likely will not come back, at least not for a while.  He will know we be watching for him.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; twas not the instructions he had given them.

“Do not blame Cedric, he be weak from his injury and I made him lie down.”  Aldus’s cheeks flamed, and he took a concerted interest in his cooking.

_At least he has the decency to be embarrassed by his falsehoods._

“Wake him.  He will finish the cooking and you will look after Sir John.  He be resting, but I do not want him to be alone when he wakes. No doubt he still be weak.”

“I should be the one looking after Sir John.”  Cedric emerged from the other tent, rubbing his eyes and making no attempt to stifle his yawn.  “Besides, tis Aldus’s turn to rest.” 

“No.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him.  “Aldus will tend to Sir John. You have failed your knight once, and I would be a fool to give you the opportunity to do so again.” 

Cedric smiled.  “As you say, Sherlock.  Aldus, look after Sir John and I will finish the food.” 

_He smiled?  Why be Cedric so, not just cooperative, but happy about it?_

Seeming uncertain to whom he should listen, Aldus’s head bobbed between Sherlock and Cedric, and settled on Cedric. “If you be sure.”

“Yes, go on.  I can handle this,” Cedric said, taking the thick stick from Aldus and poking at the fire, the embers glowing more brightly as he churned them.

“I need no help; I be not a child.”  John’s appearance silenced the other men.  He shuffled to a makeshift seat and sat down, grimacing when his body inelegantly landed on the hard surface.

 _Thou be not fine; thou be pale and about to fall over._ Sherlock’s eyes flashed with impatience.

 _I be fine. Now quit fretting like an old mother hen._ John fought to hide his smile.

Cedric rushed past Aldus to John’s side, taking an arm. “Let me help you back to bed.  You need rest.”

“No,” John grumbled, shrugging Cedric off.  “Just, no.  I have laid down long enough.  But I could use something to fill my belly.”  He started to rise, but before he could lift himself to his feet, Cedric pressed him back down.

“Sit.  I will be right back.”

Cedric flitted about as he gathered up a plate, piled it with meat, and took it to John.  Asking him if he were warm enough; did he need a blanket?  Did he need help with his…daily constitutions?  Sherlock watched John’s face scrunch in puzzlement at Cedric’s behavior, fending himself from the over-solicitousness.

Catching Sherlock’s eye, John lifted his shoulders in a shrug.  _I know not why he acts so strangely.  Guilt perhaps?  That he knew too late there be an intruder in our tent?_

 _Could be._ But Sherlock thought not.  Surely selfishness be the root of Cedric’s acts.  There be something he wants.  _I think not, but we shall see.  Just…be careful John._

_I will, love.  I will._

Sipping the ale Cedric brought for him, John rested the mazer on his thigh.  “Were there any signs of where the intruder came from, or to where he went?  Be there only one man?  What do we know?”

Cedric opened his mouth, but before a sound left it, Sherlock spoke.

“From what I can tell, there be only one man.  Why he was here, we do not know, but it appears he be the one who killed Eduard.”

John nodded.  “The chances of it being anyone else does seem slim.  How unlucky our fortunes be if there be more than one evil doer crossing our path.”

“Quite right, John.  Cedric found this on the ground last night.”  Sherlock took the knife he had kept with him and held it out to John.

“Eduard’s knife!  So _twas_ the same man.  But why would he attack me and Cedric?  We look nothing like you.”  John looked up at Sherlock, puzzled.

“I have been asking myself that all night.” 

 _So that is why thou looks as if thou has not slept, because thou stayed awake all night trying to sort this._ John tilted his head, looking closer at Sherlock.  _And taking care of me.  I be beholden to thee. Thank you, love._

_Tis no more than what thou would do for me._

John’s eyes softened.  _Tis true._

“I have decided that we can no longer wait for him to come to us; we must go on the offensive.”   Sherlock paced as he talked, laying out his strategy to find Gareth.  “The plan I have devised tis simple enough, but it should be effective.  If I am who he wants, than tis I who he will get.  I will ride ahead alone and-”

“That is a ridiculous idea!”  John flew to his feet.  His forgotten mazer falling, its amber liquid pooled on the ground.

Sherlock stopped mid-step and pivoted toward John.  “Have you a better one?”

“Uh, well…” 

“Just as I thought.  I tire of waiting.  Tis as if we be ducks in a pond, hunted by dogs.  As I said, I will travel ahead alone; Gareth will have to show his hand.  If he wants me, he will have me.”

“I will send Aldus with you.  You need a second set of eyes and ears; I will not let you go by yourself.”  His face set in stubborn resolve, John crossed his arms, the movement causing him to wince.

“ _Let_?  You will not _let_ me?” Sherlock threw his arms across his chest, echoing John’s stance.

“No.  I will not _let_ you.”  John’s squared his shoulders, planting his feet wide, digging his boots into the dirt.“Tis dangerous, and-”

 _“Dangerous?_ Know you no other words, Sir John?  Do you not recall buying my freedom _?_ Do you not recall telling me I am free to do as _I_ choose?  _I_ choose to bait your squire’s murderer and-”

“And what? Just what are you going to do, Sherlock?”  John’s voice rose, his face ruddy with frustration.  “Are you going to kill him?  Eh?  Are you a killer, now; is that how it be?  No.  Leave him to me and my squires; we will dispense with him.  I want no blood on your hands.”

“But, Sir John-”

Cedric interrupted John and Sherlock’s sharp exchange.  Both clamped their mouths shut and glared at each other, stepping back from where they stood practically toe to toe.

_Stubborn arse._

_Thou should know._

“What, Cedric?” John snapped at him.  With a last withering look at Sherlock, he turned to Cedric. 

“Did you not tell me you want to make Sherlock a squire?  If this still be the case, then twould be a perfect opportunity for him to demonstrate his skills and fortitude, and-”

“Me?  A squire? And why would I want to be a squire?” 

Sherlock’s initial reaction to the suggestion be one of rebuke; a squire be little more than a servant, and he had had his fill of serving.  A lifetime’s worth.  But, he had not been _John’s_ servant, and there would be certain…benefits to doing so.  For one, it meant they would have reason to stay together, but just as important, it would suit his immediate purposes.

“I accept,” Sherlock said before John could answer his questions.

“We will speak of it later; the matter has not been decided.”  John pressed his lips together; twas the end of the discussion.  For now.

“But did you or did you not tell Cedric you would offer me the position of squire?” 

“Tis a brilliant idea, is it not?”  Cedric broke in.  “We decided since we lost Eduard, and since you already possess some of the skills, twould be easy to place you into the role.”

 “I did say that,” John admitted.  “But-”

“Tis a fine swordsman, Sir John.”  Aldus joined the conversation.  “Natural instincts, he has, and a speed of which I have rarely seen the likes.  You would have difficulty finding a more suitable replacement for Eduard.”

“Then, tis settled, John,” Sherlock said.  “I will attend to you as squire as you desire.  And my first duty will be to lure the assailant and capture him.”

“But-”

“But, what, Sir John?  Did you not say that you would leave such a task to your squires?  And as your squire does that not mean you would leave such a task to me?”  Sherlock nearly danced in glee at having turned the situation around to his advantage.  But he stood quietly, giving John time to think.  To put the pieces together and realise he had been outwitted and outnumbered.

John glowered at Sherlock.  _Do not think thou be so clever._

 _But I am clever.  And tis one of the things you value most in me.  Is it not?  _Sherlock cocked his head, waiting for John to refute him

_Yes.  God help me, tis true._

“Cedric,” John said, pulling himself to his full height.  Despite his weariness, his voice had regained its strength, making him sound every bit the Knight and Commander he be.  “Select the weapons with which Sherlock will arm himself.  He must carry at least two replacement weapons in case he be disarmed.  Hone them until they gleam; I want them so sharp that should he need to use one, they will slice through stone with but a whisper.  Aldus, come with me and Sherlock; you will practice with him his defence moves one more time.  And…”  He paused, contemplating Sherlock.  “Show him the quickest, surest ways to kill a man.  If any blood be spilled, if any life be lost, they will not be his.

“Come on,” John called behind him and Sherlock to the lagging Aldus.  “Be hasty about it.  We have much to do and little time in which to do it.  Sherlock will be off at the first light of dawn.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Burning_Up_A_Sun for her inimitable second eye! All leftover errors are mine.

**John**

“I should have let them drown you!  Nay, I should have jumped in the river and helped hold you down!” John stood his ground, his chest a pointed finger away from Sherlock as he shouted up into his face.  “A sorry piece of cow dung you be.  Trouble tis all you bring, and I am done.  _Done,_ I say.  Now off with you!”

Spinning on his heel, John aimed his finger at Cedric and Aldus, their faces smug,  “Get him away before I am tempted to do take him to the river myself.”

“Gladly, Sir John.” Cedric advanced on Sherlock, the servant’s defiant blue eyes a tempest of anger and hatred. 

“As if I am not repulsed by my association with you, Sir John; I should have been off many days ago,” Sherlock spat out, jerking away before Cedric could touch him.  “I will leave this very instant; there be no need to escort me.  Pfft.  As useless as teats on a barren sow, you be.  All of you.”

John’s heart pounded against his ribs.  Twas all an act, their altercation.  An act that, if Eduard’s killer Gareth overheard, would give reason why Sherlock left alone, without the benefit of a horse.  But the argument felt too real, sending bile from his stomach to his throat, burning it.  To speak to Sherlock in such a way made him ache.  A deep, searing ache, as if someone had pierced him with a hot dagger.  He only hoped that Sherlock had listened to what he had not been able to say aloud ~ _I love thee. Do not believe a word that leaves my lips no matter how repulsive they be. Thou be beautiful and perfect. I LOVE THEE._

Sherlock sneered at John with the same evil eye he had given him that first day at the river, but this time there be a flicker in Sherlock’s eyes, a glimmer that told John _I heard thee._  

_Thank God._ John blew out a shaky breath; Sherlock did not take his retched words to heart.  Gathering his bearings, he threw himself back into his role, “Do not test my patience.  If you do not leave this very instant, I will-”

“You will what?”

John’s brain drew a blank; twas not part of the script, to be interrupted.  He had known what he was to say, but now, nothing.   “I will…  I will…”  As twisted and almost unrecognizable as be the mask of Sherlock’s face, all that came to John be _I will take thee back to bed and make thee forget this mad approach. I will love thee, in_ every _sense, until thou does forget thy own name._

“I thought as much.”  _Anon, John, Anon._ “As I see you have nothing worthwhile to add _,_ I shall take my leave.  Ah, ah, hands off.”  Sherlock tutted, skipping out of Cedric’s reach.  

“Thank God we have seen the last of him,” Cedric smirked, triumphant in Sherlock’s departure. 

As Sherlock’s strides took him away from the camp, never before had John known himself to be so nervous.  If he be honest with himself, he would admit the better word be “frightened.”  He had led soldiers into battles against the fiercest enemies.  Had pulled from his own shaking body a bloody sword buried deep inside him. Had helped birth his own child .

But never before had he sent the love of his life to face a killer. 

He ticked off the time in his head, _twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven._ At the count of sixty, he and Cedric would start shadowing Sherlock from the brush at the side of the road, giving him enough time to get a head start, but not so much that they could not catch up with him with ease.  At the count of forty, out of the corner of his eye, Aldus doubled over. 

“Be you well, Aldus?  You look sickly.”  John walked over to him, frowning.  _Not now._   _Aldus cannot be ill now.  Forty-three, forty-four.  We must follow Sherlock._

Aldus drew a deep breath, straightening himself.  He shook a foot and stamped it on the ground.  “Fine.  I be fine, Sir.  Something I ate last night does not sit well with me.  It will pass soon enough.”

“Tis not the first time this week, is it.”  John thought back to the other times he had seen Aldus shaky and pale, putting it down to the blow he had suffered at Eduard’s death.

“No, the third, I think, Sir.” Aldus grimaced.  “Do not worry, I will be well soon enough; fit as rain I will be by the time you return.  Now go, you have more important things about which to worry.  I will see after the horses.” 

“Be you sure there is nothing I can do?  Let me fetch some dried pomegranate for you. ”  _Sixty.  I be far past sixty._

“We need to go, Sir John.  He should not be allowed to get too far ahead of us.” Cedric stood close to John, speaking low, so his voice did not carry. 

“I will find the pomegranate,” Aldus told John. “Now, go.  Sherlock needs you.”

_“Sherlock needs you.”_   _How those words would warm me were not the circumstances so dire._  

“If you be sure.  We, the _three_ of us, will be back before nightfall…” 

_…_ _I pray._

**Gareth**

Gareth bit back a giggle though twas no one to hear him on the sparsely traveled road.  Nearly a week it has been, and he still be giddy. 

Sherlock be dead! 

He tried to feel bad about feeling so good.  Truly, he did.  Twas not that Gareth had wished the man ill.  After all, Sherlock be Millicent’s brother, and his death would put a pall on their wedding.  But, praise God Almighty, Sherlock be dead! 

For two years, _two years,_ Gareth had been away, searching for Sherlock.  Away from his home, away from all he knew to appease his future father-in-law.  To show him that he be worthy of Millicent.  To show him that he would meet any challenge to show him he would be a committed husband and a loyal son-in-law.  And when he had left the castle that day, no one, not even William, had known if Sherlock be alive.  He could well have been dead, Sherlock could, and even if he still had been alive, he could have been far from England, impossible to find.

Be not two years as much as a man should have to give of his life?  After searching every corner of the country, wet or frozen or baking under the hot sun?  After suffering three robberies and countless fools?  After many a sleepless night in strange beds, lulling himself with the memory of Millicent’s sweet kisses?  Well, enough be enough, Gareth had decided.  No matter what William had said, no matter how much favour it would curry, Gareth had given himself one more week to complete the odious task.  One more week and, if he had not found Sherlock, he would head home.  He would tell William and Millicent that Sherlock be dead.  No one would be the wiser, would they. 

But, no, Gareth’s horse had gouged his hoof on a sharp rock, and so he had stopped for a few days in the tiresome little town of Leith, giving the hoof time to heal.  His first night in Leith he had gone to the alehouse and had, by the most fortunate of fortunes, found Sherlock.  Nearly faint, he had, when he had heard Sherlock’s name.  He had looked over at the table where the three young men sat, and the one lad had called another lad “Sherlock.”  Just like that, there he be. 

Gareth’s ears had pricked up; little chance there be of two Sherlocks existing in the world.  He had looked at Sherlock and measured him against the description he had been given of how he should look.  Twas slighter and taller than Gareth had thought he would be, given his father’s appearance, but, eh, one never knows from where one’s characteristics come; Sherlock’s form could have been passed down from generations two or three previous.  All Gareth knew was that he had found the long lost son, and he would take him back to his family.  Whether or not Sherlock wanted to go.

It had not been Gareth’s fault when, after recovering from the shock of finding Sherlock, he had followed him into the night only to discover his legs sticking out of the latrine.  The image of Sherlock’s pale body, covered in blood, still roiled Gareth’s stomach; he had no taste for violence.  But with Sherlock dead, he could go home and, with complete honesty, say that he had found him and that there had been nothing he could have done.  He and Millicent would marry after a suitable mourning period (How much of a mourning period could there be when Sherlock had been gone these many years?), and start their family. 

And the best part in all of that?  The _very best_ part?  Twas that Gareth and Millicent would not have to share one farthing of her inheritance.  Surely the old man would soon be dead if he be not already, and the entire inheritance would be hers.

Theirs. 

Gareth lifted his face toward the sky, letting the first soft raindrops fall on this face.  Fresh rain, a fresh start.  He giggled again, reveling in how rich he would be, and, pulling the cloak’s hood over his head, he prodded his horse down the road. 

Ahhh, yes.  Twould be good to get home.

 

 

**Colin**

Twas so very unlike himself, Colin mused.  Never had he been an impetuous man, and though when he be younger his mother had called him willful, more often than not he had obeyed what he be told. Even when he had chafed at the constraints.

No, twas not like him at all to spend days searching for a man he had only seen and never met, and he did not know what he would do when he found him.  All he knew was that the thought of meeting Sherlock, as his brother, consumed all else.

When he had fled the house that night after his mother told him about Sherlock, Colin had run into the dark, through the three large fields to the Talbot manor.  Not surprisingly, his appearance at such a late hour at first be disregarded.  But he had persisted, pounding his fist on the door until a servant opened it, telling him that Sherlock had been gone some four or five days.  Telling Colin in a conspiratorial undertone, “Aye, me thinks we have seen the last of that one.  Trouble maker he be.  Got on the wrong side of his master, he did, and we ain’t seen him since.  May be dead, may just be gone.”  The servant had shrugged his shoulders as if to say it mattered not to him either way.  “All I know is he ain’t here, and good riddance.  Sorry mate.” And then the servant had closed the door, narrowly missing Colin’s nose.

What the servant had told him did nothing to improve Colin’s perception of his caustic brother, but neither did it deter his compulsion to find him.  Colin had walked home, his thoughts in turmoil, and, waking his mother, told her what had happened.  Discouraged that he had no direction in which to turn; he had no idea where Sherlock might be.

“I think I may know, or at least we may have a way to find out,” Laila had said, kinder than he had deserved after disturbing her sleep.  She had told Colin of the friend Sherlock had been with when he called at their house asking for the ointment.  “Sir John, he said his name be.  A gracious man.”  Her face had glowed in fond remembrance of the man who had handled Sherlock’s prickliness with such ease. 

“Sir John?  Sir John of where, Mother?”  Colin had leaned forward, grasping Laila’s hand. 

“Oh, my.”  Laila had tapped her mouth with her free fingers.  “Canton? Canterbury? Camden?  No. Tis not it.  Mmmmm.  It will come to me.  Ahh! Cambridge.  Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge, tis who he be.”

Colin had grabbed his coat from where he had dropped it at the end of Laila’s bed, and in his eagerness, tangled his arms in the sleeves.  _Buzzard’s brains_ he swore under his breath.

“Tis too late, thee must wait until morn,” Laila had said, tugging at Colin’s arm.

“But mother, surely Geoffrey will know who Sir John be, or at least will be able to find out where he has gone; he knows many in his trade.  And I will beg of him to borrow a horse.  All these years I have worked with him should not be for naught.  I have been a faithful assistant.”

“Yes, that thou has been, and a skilled one, as well, but it will wait until morn. If you are to leave, you need a good night’s rest.  And we need to gather provisions for you, bundle clean clothing for thee to take.  I will not send thee off ill-prepared.”

A restless night it had been. _I am to meet my brother!  My BROTHER!  I wonder if I will come upon any bears?  (Shudder) Will Mother be all right on her own?  I shall ask Agnes to look in on her whilst I be gone.  Perhaps I will see a dragon, a REAL dragon!_  

At first light, Colin had dashed to the blacksmith.  “Geoffrey,” Colin had said, panting.

“Colin?  Be you well?  Your mother?”  Geoffrey had asked, his hammer paused mid-air.

“Yes, yes, we be fine.  I have a matter of great urgency with which to attend.  But I need a favour? I need to leave for two, three, maybe four days.  I do not yet know.  And I…”  Colin picked at dried mud on his hand, avoiding Geoffrey’s eyes, “I--I need to borrow a horse, and I know you have permission to use your sister’s husband’s.  It will have the very best care, and I-.”

“Tis _that_ all.”  Geoffrey laughed.  “Aye. Tis fine, Colin.  Business has been slow and I have barely had enough work for you as it is.  As for the horse, I know it will be in good hands.”

Colin beamed at Geoffrey.  “Thank you, thank you so much.  Tis one more thing, though.  Do you know who Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge be?  Twas in Leith a few days back.  I, uh, I have need to know in which direction he travels.”   

“Sir John?  Oh, aye. Why need you know about him?  One of his squires came to my home Sunday.  Bit odd, that, but the squire said Sir John be in need of immediate assistance.  How could I say no to a knight?  He said they were off to London they were, for the tournament.  Now let us see to that horse.” 

With a spirit full of hope and adventure, Colin had accompanied Geoffrey to retrieve the horse, anxious to be on his way.  

After sitting on a horse for two long days, though, something to which Colin be unaccustomed, his back hurt, his thighs ached.  And his ardency waned, trailing behind him until almost none be left.  Twas not that he no longer wanted to see Sherlock and tell him they be brothers, but why could it not be _now._

On the journey, Colin kept up a constant stream of conversation with himself.  In part twas because he be lonely; the few people with whom he had crossed paths had not been enough to fill the void of companionship.  But too, he wished to create a perfect greeting for when he met Sherlock.  Something pithy, to not look foolish in his eagerness.   Something that would catch Sherlock’s attention and make him interested in knowing his brother.

“A good beginning makes a good ending.”  _No, no, no.  It makes not sense.  He will take one listen and ride on._ “No road be long with good company.”  _Tis not it, either.  He has company; he does not need mine._ “Why be you such a wanker?”Colin laughed aloud.  _That_ would catch Sherlock’s attention.  Maybe catch Colin a wallop on the head, too.  No, twas best to be straight forward in who he be.

_Wait!  What be that?_ Bringing his horse to a halt, Colin inhaled the aroma wafting past him.  _Meat!_ He scanned the area, sighting a plume of smoke.  _Someone be cooking!  Perhaps they would not mind a famished visitor.  Twould be nice share a meal; talk a little, if they be amenable._ Pulling the reins in the direction of the smoke, he rode to the edge of a small camp. 

“Sire, God keep you,” Colin called out to the young man who stood up from where he sat at the fire.  “There be no reason to raise your weapon; I mean you no harm.”  He held his open palms up in a profession of peace.  “I be Colin, from Leith.”

“And God keep you, Sire.  I be Aldus,” came the reply as Aldus lowered his weapon.  “One cannot be too careful.”

“I humbly beg your pardon for startling you, good sir.  I have been long in my journey and too hurried to stop long enough to do other than sleep. May I be so bold as to ask to accompany you in your meal?  I have little to offer you in return, save for my gratitude.” _Stop staring at the_ _the supper, Colin; tis impolite._

“Pray, rest; I would be most honoured to share our food with you.  Tis for my knight and fellow squires, but I have time to prepare more before they return.”  Aldus held the reigns to steady the horse whilst Cedric dismounted.

“Knight, you say?”  Cedric threw his leg back over the horse from where he had started to alight, his pulse racing.  Would he soon meet Sherlock?  “And what be his name, your knight?” 

“Sir John the Courageous-.” 

Blood pounded in Colin’s ears, blocking the rest of what Aldus said.  With a fierce kick into his horse's flank, he braced himself as the horse started to sprint.   Hanging on tightly with one hand as he used the other to cover his head against the coming rain

Close.  Sherlock be so very close.   This afternoon, this _very_ afternoon, he would meet his brother.

 

 

 

**John**

_Shut up, John. Everything will be fine, just fine.  Sherlock be the cleverest man I know and, as long as he keeps his pretty mouth shut, he will come out of this untouched._

_He will.  I know he will._

For hours, they had prepared.  Had planned down to the minutest detail, giving Sherlock every advantage to see that he succeeded.  Aldus had practiced with him until Sherlock could not bear it any longer.  “Tedious!”  Cedric had sharpened the weapons- a sword, a dagger to hide in each boot, and one to hide underneath Sherlock’s cloak.  John had fitted him with protective padding and any piece of his armor they could fit on Sherlock’s slim frame without restricting his movements. 

And John had prayed, asking God to keep Sherlock safe, stumbling over words that had not formed on his tongue since the horror of watching his wife and child die. 

Still, it did not feel enough, his only reassurance Sherlock’s promise that he would come back to John, healthy and whole. 

_Please, Lord_.  _Let him be right._

John pushed through the brush, trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock.  Trying to keep his ears alert to sounds around him that might not belong.  Knowing it be imperative to concentrate.  But it had been a long day, and against his best intentions his mind wandered to the night before. 

With the excuse of tending to John’s health, Sherlock had said he would stay with him as he had the previous night.  Cedric had spit out his ale, and Aldus had turned his head and coughed into his hand, but without argument or complaint they had taken turns guarding the camp, leaving John and Sherlock be. 

John could still feel Sherlock’s warmth on his throat, his lips, his face, from Sherlock’s unhurried kisses, interrupted now and again with a soft sigh, a murmured “Sir John.”  He still felt the warmth on his own hands from where he had smoothed his palms over every dip, every rise of Sherlock’s skin, squeezing, caressing, worshipping.  Still felt the heady warmth from the crook of his neck, along his back and hips, to the bottom of his feet, where Sherlock had curled his body around him at every possible, and seemingly impossible, point.

They had held each other through the night, Sherlock’s soft breath on John’s face, John gripping Sherlock’s hand, until John had told Sherlock twas time to sleep; he needed his faculties sharp, unhampered by lethargy.  And though Sherlock had pouted, not wanting to miss one single moment with John, John had convinced him with a simple plea.  “Please, love.  For me?” 

Thundering hooves beating the path brought John back to the present.  _Be this for whom we wait?_ His muscles tensed, on alert.  Twas not the first time that day; several times travelers had approached Sherlock.  In the end, each had failed to be cause for alarm, gentle folk who stopped to ask Sherlock if he be in need of assistance.  All dismissed with a churlish word and the flick of a hand.

But the traveler who now approached Sherlock from behind be solitary; that in itself be unusual.

_Friend or foe?_ John looked across the road to read Cedric’s reaction; Cedric had seen Gareth the night of Eduard’s death and would recognise him.  As John feared he would, Cedric shrugged and shook his head; the man hung his hooded head low, shielding his face from the rain, and them.

_Sherlock!  Turn around, godammit.  Protect thyself!_

In his haste to get closer to Sherlock, John did not see the low-hanging tree limb before it jabbed him in his injured shoulder.  Pricks of light danced in front of his eyes, the edges of his vision growing dark.   Swearing, he propped himself on his bent knees and, taking a deep breath, pulled himself back up straight to seek Sherlock. 

With deliberation, Sherlock turned to see who be behind him.  The man, but short distance away, reigned his horse to an abrupt stop and jutted his jaw toward Sherlock.

“Sherlock?”  He asked, bidding the horse to walk the last few steps.

Sherlock did not move his hand from where it rested on his sword.  “Tis me.  Who asks?”

_Be this the murderer?_ Cupping his mouth, John pursed his lips and hooted.  Once. Twas the signal that Cedric ready his crossbow. 

_Friend or foe, goddamit._

The rider dropped from his horse, teetering to catch himself from slipping in the forming mud.  The two men exchanged a few brief words, but John could make out nothing that be said.  Sherlock drew his sword.  The rider pulled his from the scabbard on his mount. More words, short and sharp, between Sherlock and the stranger.

_Gareth!  Twas Gareth!_ John hooted again, twice this time - the signal for Cedric to shoot. 

“No! Cedric, no!”  Sherlock pitched his sword to the ground.

But twas too late.  The bolt flew into the stranger, piercing his back directly over his heart.  His body arched forward, arms flailing, falling to the ground as if in a dramatic, wailing prayer.  His knees hit the dirt, and he crumpled to the ground. 

John ran to Sherlock, who stared blankly at the man lying near his feet. 

Glancing down, John looked into lifeless eyes.  “Sherlock. Be you all right?”  He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, searching him up and down for an injury.  In the tumult had there been something he missed?

“Sherlock?”  John asked again.  Sherlock had to have heard him.  What be wrong? 

Sherlock raised his eyes to John.  His mouth parting, at first no sound came out.  He blinked, once, twice, and then, as if confused, said, “He be dead, John.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Sherlock.  What be wrong?  Tell me.  You look as if a ghost appeared before you.”  John clasped Sherlock’s shoulders, the pain in his own shoulder be damned.  _Dear God_ , _how I wish I could hold thee right now._

His eyes coming into focus as if seeing John for the first time, Sherlock answered, his voice hollow.  “Tis no ghost, tis Gareth.” 

“Thank God.  But, tis a good thing, be it not?  He can no longer hurt us.”  John struggled to tamp down his need to slide his hands up to Sherlock’s neck, his face.  In front of him stood a man he would never have believed could be shaken.  By anything.  “You were brave, so brave.  You should be proud.” 

Sherlock slipped free of John’s hands and crouched by the body whose face be frozen in death.  “Proud of leading a man to his death?  Proud of failing to secure the information I needed before he be killed?  Tis not my definition of ‘proud,’ John.  Just a few moments more be all I needed.  He-”

“Ha! _Twas_ Gareth!” Cedric bounded over to stand with them and, clapping Sherlock on the back, snatched his hand back when Sherlock turned to glare at him.  “Good work, my fellow. Eduard’s death be avenged, and we can proceed to London without wondering who be lurking in the shadows.  I, for one, will be happy to have a good night’s sleep.”  He patted his stomach.  “And a hearty meal.”

“He what, Sherlock?”  John asked, unheedful of Cedric’s interruption.

“He had news of my father.”  Sherlock picked through Gareth’s wet garments, flipping open his cloak, digging in and around the fabrics covering his body.

“He--he knows your father?  How can that be?”                                                                

“He said he be astonished to find me alive; he thought me dead.  He told me twas because of my father that he searched for me.”  Rain splattered the sheaf of vellum Sherlock pulled from Gareth’s purse.  Riffling hurriedly through the pages, he tucked them in his own blouse when ink started to run, threatening to render the vellum unreadable.  

John squatted beside Sherlock, needing to see his face.  Needing Sherlock see the compassion on his own. “Did he kill Eduard, thinking it be you?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “That, I do not know. I did not have not time to ask before he be killed; twas not important.”

“Twas not important?!  He killed Eduard and twas not _important?_ ”  Cedric’s voice boomed from above them.  “Let us kill _you_ and see if tis _important.”_

“Cedric!  Tis not what Sherlock meant.  Eduard’s death be a tragedy, true, but to know where Sherlock’s family be tis important to him.”

“Oh. Now you speak for him, do you?” 

Cedric pressed his lips together at the expression on John’s face as John rose to meet him.  The expression that said Cedric had gone too far, for John’s face be void of any aspect but coldness in his eyes.

Cedric bowed from the waist, a small, stiff gesture. “If it pleases you, Sir, may I head back to camp?  Our job be complete.”  He raised his head, his face wiped free of the anger and defiance that had been there.

“No, your job be not complete.  Lift the body onto the horse and walk it, nay, trot it,back to camp. And when you get there, clean the body of blood and wrap it in fresh cloth.  If you be done by the time Sherlock and I return, you are to sit and wait for me.”

Cedric’s glance swept between the body and the horse, and back, his forehead creasing.  “But, Sir, I cannot-” 

John shifted his weight to his other foot and folded his arms.  “You cannot what?”

“Uh, my error, Sir.  Apologies.  I will have no problem.  No problem at all.” 

John turned his back to Cedric and stepped to where Sherlock rummaged through the bag that had been strapped to the horse.  “Have you found anything more of interest?”

“Not yet.  Tis most odd.  I searched his pockets and his purse.  Here be the rest of his belongings, yet tis not one item to indicate who he be, from where he be, or to where he goes.  I took a look at his papers, but will have to go through them more carefully later when I can keep them dry.”

Sherlock held out a few coins in his palm.    “He has little money.  So either he be poor, or he has spent it all.  From his clothing, I believe he be not a poor man.  It be threadbare where he sits and rides, and is discoloured by the sun, but not long ago, say two years, it had been in good repair, if not new.  And his hands, John.”

John leaned over, peering at Gareth’s hand as Sherlock angled it this way and that for John to get a better view.

“His hands be rough from holding reigns, but elsewhere they be smooth.  He has never done manual labour.  Look at his fingers.”  Sherlock scratched his thumbnail at one of the Gareth’s darkened nails, but the stain stubbornly refused to flake away.  

“What do you think that means, Sherlock?  Surely not all murderers do manual labour.  Be it not in their very nature to avoid exertion?”  John tried to understand what Sherlock be telling him, but twas beyond him.

“Think, John.  Tis ink on his nails.  This be an educated man, a man who can write.  How many educated men would live a life away from the comforts of home?  If tis to see me dead, twould be for a bounty.  But be I worth so much dead?  Either twas an enormous sum, or he be not a killer.” 

“Tis sensible, I suppose.” 

“Do you not see?”  Sherlock persisted.  “Gareth be who he said he is, sent by my father to take me home, not murder me.”

“But why?  If he be educated why would he leave home for so long, and if what you say be true, why without recompense?  Why would it not be someone else who came for you?”

Sherlock talked from behind his hands steepling at his mouth. “Perhaps he owes something to my father?  Or wants something from my father which cannot be purchased?”

John shook his head, dazed.  “How you think these things through, I do not know. You be amazing.  So, now what?  If Gareth is not Eduard’s killer, then who be it?”

“Yaaaa!”

Sherlock’s and John’s heads whipped toward the cry muffled by the clamour of hooves pounding the mud.

“Cedric!  Where-” John yelled after Cedric, who hunched over the neck of the horse as if in a death race.  Against whom, or what, John did not know.

“Let him go.”  Sherlock leapt up, grabbing at John’s arm.

“Where the hell does he go?”  An angry vein throbbed on John’s forehead, his face a livid crimson. 

“I imagine he be on his way to London; he _is_ headed in that direction.”

“How can thou be so unruffled?  And if thou knows everything, then tell me.  Why did he run like that?  Tell me.”  John knew he be unreasonable, unleashing his fury on Sherlock, that Sherlock be not to blame for Cedric’s flight.  But, _goddammit_. 

“Because, John, Cedric, thy squire, a man to whom you have on many occasions entrusted your life, murdered Eduard.”

John blinked, the lines around his eyes creasing in puzzlement as he absorbed what Sherlock said.  So reasoned and calm be Sherlock’s declaration, twas as if he had witnessed the brutal act.  As if he had full knowledge.  But with his faith in Sherlock’s mental processes unshakable, John knew twas that Sherlock had pieced together snippets of information which others brushed over, to reveal an argument with which no one could quarrel.  Sherlock had reason, good reason, to believe, to _know_ , Cedric be the killer. 

Anger draining from him, John collapsed into himself.  And with a weary sigh, he asked, “Why?”  Knowing full well Sherlock would have the answer.  And that, no matter what, he would not like the answer.

But with that irritating, unwavering confidence that Sherlock had about him, the warranted assuredness that drew John to him like a bee to a flower, Sherlock did not answer the question.  Instead, he asked one.

“How long has Cedric been in love with thee, John?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Burning_Up_A_Sun for betaing my chapter despite such a busy day!


	15. Chapter 15

“For how long has Cedric been in love with thee, John?”

“Say again?”

John be fairly certain what Sherlock had said, but what kind of question be that?  _When I first met Sherlock I considered the possibility he be mad; perhaps I be hasty in my decision that he be not._

“I said, how long as Cedric been in love with thee.  Tis obvious, and-”

“Tis obvious to you, perhaps, but to me?  Ha!  How, in all that be holy, would I know?  How do _you_ know?”

“At first I did not recognise the signs, but later, when I saw the two of you together-”

“We are _not_ together.”

“ _Ob_ viously-”

John threw his palm up.  Taking a deep breath, it left him in a slow, shaky heave.  A couple smaller breaths more and he steadied. “Sorry, love. May we dispense with the _‘obviously’?_ It may be obvious to thee, but tis not to me.  Obviously.”

A smile threatened the side of Sherlock’s mouth and, for the first time that day, a vague sense that almost felt like pleasure flicked inside John.  Sherlock stepped closer to him, fanning the flicker to a small flame.  Dousing the flame when John realised Sherlock be leaning down to Gareth, not in for a kiss. 

“Take his other arm.”  Sherlock stooped to hook an arm under the cleft of Gareth’s shoulder, and indicated John do the same. 

Sorely disappointed at his loss, John did as asked.  Twas not the time for romance, but a kiss would not hurt; it had been far too long.

“We will put him under the tree, just over there,” Sherlock nodded. “And then we will head back to camp.  We can fetch him on our way back tonight.”

“On our way back?  Tonight?”

“Of course.  We have more reason than ever to go to London, and as quickly as possible.  We need to turn Cedric over to the sheriff, and, if I be not mistaken, London be where Gareth was going, too.  Someone will be waiting for his return.”

About to ask how Sherlock’s father, and Gareth’s connection to his father, fit into his plan, John decided against it.  Sherlock would talk when he be ready.  If John be not wrong, Sherlock was putting together a plan in that extraordinary brain of his, devising a way to find out who waited for Gareth’s return and how to find them.

The body stowed under the tree and covered with branches, they carefully traversed the muddy, rock-strewn road back to camp.

“So what be this about Cedric being in love with me?”  John huffed, the combined efforts of talking and staying abreast of Sherlock’s long strides getting the better of him.  Exhausted he be.  It had been a long few days: his shoulder ached, his head hurt.  “What does it have to do with him running off like that?  What be I saying?  Cedric be not in love with me…how does thou know?”

Whilst John waited for an answer, he listened to the breeze whistle through the treetops. To the patter of rain hitting the ground as it diminished from fat drops to a slow drizzle.  Letting it lull him.  Letting it calm his restless mind so twould clear for the coming challenges.

“I know well how he feels.”  Sherlock’s voice broke through John’s thoughts.

The statement, whilst offered without a trace of sentiment, nonetheless reignited the flicker in John’s chest.  It humbled him that this rare, beautiful creature could be in love with him. 

“And what does that have to do with Cedric running away?”  Sherlock picked off an errant leaf that floated onto his neck.  “I have long held the suspicion he be the one who killed Eduard, and this be the final proof.  He heard me say I thought Gareth be innocent; only the guilty run.” 

Sherlock slowed and stopped.  John, relieved for a respite from the demands of keeping apace of him, did the same.

“Twas my fault, John.”  Sherlock turned, his troubled gaze resting somewhere beyond John. 

“What be your fault?”

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s with a fiery intensity, their flash of sea blue a disconcerting contrast against the harsh, grey day.  “I never thought he would harm thee.”  The voice that began strong and determined, faded away with the admission, and he once again stared off into the distance.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

John’s simple plea be ignored.  Whether due to stubbornness or distraction, he could not tell.

“Sherlock, hey.”  He stretched to place a gentle hand on Sherlock’s face, turning it toward him.  “Tis not thy fault.  Thou could not have known.”

John flinched at the flash of anger that swept across Sherlock’s face, at the way he drew himself up.  But John stood fast.   “I have lived with Cedric these two years, and never would I have guessed at the dark depths within him.  There be no way thou could know.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and, with both hands, John held that beloved face so he could not look away. 

“Thou be the smartest man I have ever known, but humans be unpredictable beings, and we cannot always know what they think.”

His anger melting, Sherlock bowed his head into John’s touch. “But _I_ should have known.  _I_ suspected he killed Eduard; _I_ know he loves thee.”

His thumbs smoothing along Sherlock’s cheekbones, John shushed him.  “And because he loves me he hurt me?  That makes no sense.  No more sense than that you would hurt me.  You had no reason to believe Cedric be a threat to me.”

Sherlock raised his head, leaving John’s hands empty.

“I thought it suspicious that Cedric alone be the one to find Eduard dead, his weapon missing.   Did thou know Cedric had a cut on him that night, John?”

Sherlock took John’s mystification as a ‘yes.’

“Twas a cut on his belly; I saw it when he changed out of his bloody clothes.  But I did not confront him; he would have come up with a clever lie. I decided to wait for more proof before saying anything.  You said Eduard and I had similar features; I did not give it pause until I saw Cedric had affections for thee.  And when the knife appeared that night in your tent?  That is when it came to me that Cedric killed Eduard to place blame on me so that I would be arrested, or that you would send me away.  Anything that would put distance between us.  He be jealous of our friendship.  Of our…of our…”

“Of our love.”

“Yes.”

_May I kiss, thee?  I have a desperate need._

_Please_.

John raised his face and, cupping Sherlock’s, with a whisper-soft kiss met the supple lips that sought his.  Their warm breathes mingling, tension seeped from their bodies, relaxing limbs and minds taut from days of vigilance.  Sherlock leaned into the stalwart chest in front of him, and John kissed the side of his mouth.  His jaw.  The crest of his cheek and beyond. With each ministration, John felt Sherlock’s tension ease, knowing twould not last long.  But they would take this moment.  They deserved this moment.

“Sir John,” Sherlock sighed.

“Sherlock,” John said, just as heartfelt.

“John?  Why does thou no longer call me Ily?”  Sherlock guided John’s head to his shoulder and enfolded him in his arms, careful not to press at John’s wound.

“Twas a silly name,” John chuckled.  “But know this,” he said, sobering.  “Every time I say thy name, every time I look at thee or touch thee, every time I draw a breath, I tell thee I love thee.” 

Pulling back so he could look at Sherlock, John asked, “Will that do?  If you prefer, I can continue with Ily-”

“Breathing and touching me and calling me Sherlock be fine, thank you very much.” 

John wanted to laugh; Sherlock looked so affronted at the idea of being called Ily again.  Instead, his hand at Sherlock’s nape, he brought him down for another kiss.  And, too soon, with a regretful groan, he released him.  “We had best be off.  We have much work to do.  Packing up camp, finding Cedric…”

“And finding my father,” Sherlock finished, abruptly launching himself down the road.  “Come, John.”

John paused before catching up with him, watching with pride the man he felt he had known a lifetime.  Thinking- _A_ _s if I could do anything else other than follow you, my love._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Burning_Up_A_Sun for betaing despite your busy day!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last time I posted, I put out Chapters 14 and 15 within a few hours of each other, but some subscribers only received the first notice, and I wouldn't want you to miss Ch 15, there's important stuff in there. :-) Today I'm also posting 2 chapters, just in case you only get one notice.
> 
> Thank you Burning_Up_A_Sun for taking your time and talent to look my chapters over; they are better for it. <3

_What an idiot I be._

A high-pitched whinny registered the horse’s protest when Colin yanked on its reins, stopping in the middle of the road whilst Colin contemplated in which direction to go.  _Forward?  Back to the camp?_

_If Aldus be cooking for the knight and his squires, would they not soon return?  He did not mention a servant, but Sherlock must have joined them or else why be he not at the camp?  I will let him come to me, and whilst I wait I will fill my belly.  Yes, tis what I will do._

Arriving back at the camp, twas no one to greet him but several pairs of mildly curious eyes.  Only the horses turned their heads his way; Aldus be nowhere in sight.  Alighting from his mount, Colin deftly tied the reins to a sturdy tree trunk at the edge of the clearing and, grabbing a half-full bucket of water, set it within his horse’s reach.

“Who be there?”  A voice came from behind the bushes, a hand pushing them aside.  “Oh, tis you.  Colin, be it?”  Aldus wiped his mouth with his arm.   “You left with such speed I did not have time to send food with you.  You be welcome to eat now if you be inclined.”

Colin’s gaze flitted to the fire. Smoke curled around the edges of the oil cloth covering it, disappearing into the misty rain.  _Food.  I need food._ He would not be surprised if Aldus heard his stomach rumbling; it would make a bolt of thunder proud the way it rolled through him, a monster fighting to escape. 

“Help yourself.”  Aldus waved a vague hand toward the fire.  “I would portion some for you, but--” His hand flew to his mouth, and he stumbled back toward the bushes, not quite making it before he retched.  An effort for naught.  Despite his gagging, he be unable to expel that which brought him so much discomfort.

“You be unwell.  Be there something I can do for you?”  The young man looked to be in complete misery.

“No, no.”  Aldus coughed, his face twisting in ways Colin did not know a face be able. “I be fine.  I need to lie down if tis all right with you.” 

Colin nodded, unsure if it be all right, but what other choice had he than to say ‘yes’? 

“Just--just find me if someone stops who does not belong here.”

_About what does Aldus talk?  Tis I who do not belong here; how will I know who else does not?_ But Colin nodded again, standing straight and puffing out his slight chest to project a confidence he did not feel.  He did not want Aldus to think he had erred in giving him responsibility for the camp.

So strong be his hunger, Colin wasted no time in dashing to the fire, nudging one of the small rabbits off its spit onto a plate.

“Oww!”   He stuck his burnt finger into his mouth, the warmth of his mouth only mading his finger hurt worse.  Glaring at the steaming food, he pulled out a knife and made several long cuts the length of the rabbit, fanning it open to let the heat escape.  _Take that, you bastard; I will fall over if I do not eat you soon._ Colin held no particular ill will towards the animal, but darn it, he be famished.

He sat, tapping his leg, willing his meal to cool.  Willing his stomach to settle.  _Hunger tis what it be_. _Yes, I be nervous to see my brother, but not so much that my insides be turning on itself.  Tis because I have not eaten well these last days; a little food will fix me right up._

Colin be wrong.  Deeming the meat cool enough to eat, he took a bite, and then another.  They tasted heavenly for the brief moments they spent in his mouth before they went down, but when they hit his stomach, they felt as if he had eaten boulders, heavy and hard.  Weighing him down. 

_Noooo!_

He took another bite and admitted defeat; twas all he could get down.  He be too flustered to take more.  He set down the plate and stood up.  Looked around.  Wondered what he could do whilst he waited.  Sat back down.  Mother had urged him to bring along a chess game, thinking he and Sherlock might be able to bond over it ( _Hmph.  Women._ ), but the game be of no use, one could not play by themselves. 

Closing his eyes, Colin took deep breaths, trying to relax.  He did not dare lean against anything else he would fall asleep.  And if he did, who would mind the camp?  Twas his responsibility whilst Aldus rested. 

Colin’s eyes flew open.

_What do I hear? Be it voices?  Yes, voices come from around the bend and they grow stronger._

_This be_ _them!_

Jumping to his feet, Colin positioned his body into his most manly stance; twould do no good for his brother to think him soft.  His hands braced on his hips, and his feet spread apart, he scowled.  _No, no!  I do not want to look_ too _powerful; I do not wish to scare them._ Colin folded his hands together in front of him and settled on a solemn, expression - serious, but not about to attack them.  _No, wait._ He clasped his hands behind his back, fixing an expression he thought to be a bemused smile.  _Yes, that be good.  Intelligent, strong, aloof.  A bearing that says I be not a dotard who be blown over by Sherlock’s sharp word or two.  Or twenty._

Colin’s stomach growled, and he growled back.  _Shut.  Up.  How can you think about food at a time like this_?

And then he saw from whom the voices carried.  Two men walked briskly toward the camp,and Colin’s bravery faltered.  His mind, his body floated; he could not feel his feet touching the ground.  _My brother.  My brother be here._  

Sherlock’s stature be the same as the times Colin had seen him in the Leith – great in height ( _he looks even taller walking beside that short man_ ), reedy, but not gaunt.  But twas a different air about him.  Somehow Sherlock be less…harsh.  Twas no glower about his eyes and brow, no staunchness in his carriage.   Talking to the other man, Sherlock looked, and acted, well, human.

The instant Sherlock spotted him, Colin knew it.  Sherlock stopped talking, and he jerked his head, alerting the other man to his presence.  He threw his shoulders back.  His face tightened.  His eyes narrowed; even with the distance between him and Sherlock, Colin could tell how they penetrated him.  Swallowing, Colin stood a little taller, fortifying himself against the onslaught he had seen unleashed on others.  Others he had pitied.

The closer Sherlock and the other man came, the faster Colin’s heart beat, the moisture forming on his brow not from rain but from sweat.  He squeezed his hands together, hard, to keep them from shaking.   _Say something, Colin._ He opened his mouth to greet them, to tell them he meant no harm, but nothing came out.  Twas not his finest moment, staring slack-jawed at Sherlock. 

“Where be Aldus?  And who be you?”  The small man asked.  His eyes left Colin only long enough to dart quick glances around the camp.

Colin’s mouth flapped.  Noises that sounded nothing like words escaped him as he continued to stare at Sherlock.

“Be you deaf?  Or dumb?  Answer Sir John.”  

The brief, intense stare Sherlock gave Colin did nothing to ease his nerves, and Colin pointed mutely to one of the tents.

“Dumb, I see,” Sherlock snorted.  

“Sherlock,” Sir John said under his breath.

Colin nearly gasped. With such a rebuke, twas a certainty Sherlock would turn his sharp tongue on the knight.  Though Colin had never been near a knight, had, in fact, never seen one, he knew twas folly to incur a knight’s anger.   But to his amazement, Sherlock tipped his head toward Sir John, searching Sir John’s face.  Twas almost a submissive gesture.

“Not good?”  Sherlock asked.

_Wonder_ _of wonders, the gargoyle be tamed!_

“Bit not, yeh.”  Sir John did not seem angry.  He lifted his hand to place it on Sherlock’s arm and, appearing to think better of it, let it drop. “Aldus be ill when we left this morning; I had best check on him.”

“Stay, Sir John.  You can talk to whomever, or whatever, this be.”  Sherlock glowered at Cedric as he walked past him.  “See what it is he be doing here.” 

The small glimpse of the human gone, the gargoyle had resurfaced.  _That did not last long._

“Pay no heed to my squire’s ill temper; many difficulties have beset our day, and he be peevish.  As he signified, I be Sir John.  And you?  What brings you here?”  Whilst Sir John talked, with a keen eye he looked Colin up and down, his gaze resting on the weaponry Colin carried.

“I be Colin, Sir.”  Unsure if one bowed to a Knight, Colin settled on a small nod.  His attention divided, his gaze followed Sherlock’s retreat to the tents.

_Sherlock?  A squire? How can this be?  I have seen with my own eyes he be a servant.  Mother, too, said he be a servant.  From what I know, tis not a requirement that a squire comes from nobility, but tis most astonishing to pluck one from servanthood._

_Idiot!  Why did I not tell Sherlock I be his brother?_ Colin resisted the urge to run after him.

“What brings you this way?  Be you on your way to London, as be we?”

_Tis most curious.  Sherlock be a servant (though Sir John calls him his squire), and yet he acts as Sir John’s equal.  His dress be similar to Sir John’s.  He gives commands as if he has the same authority._

“Colin?”

Reluctantly, Colin dragged his head around.

“I, uh…London? Headed to London you be?”  _London.  I told Mother I should only be a few days, and she will worry if I be much longer.  But what is Sherlock going to do?  Go with me to Leith when I tell him we be brothers?  Renounce his squirehood and return to being a servant?  Would I?_

“I be traveling to London, too, Sir John.”  _Why?  Why?_ “I, uh, have family there.”  _Tis not a lie.  At least, soon it will not be._

“What!  You lie!  He would never do that!”  Aldus came scrambling out of the tent.  His foot catching on a flap, he fell to his knees. “Sir John!” He shouted, and pushing himself up, hastened to Sir John. 

“Sir John!  Sherlock.  He says Cedric killed Eduard and tis why he did not come back with you.  Please, tell me tis not true.  I have already lost one friend; I cannot lose another.  _Please_.  There has to be some other reason Cedric ran.”  The anguish on Aldus’s face made him look iller than when he had gone to lie down.

“Tis true, I be sorry to say.” 

“But why?  Why would Cedric do such a thing?  Eduard caused no one trouble.  Odd, he sometimes be, but twas his sense of humour, and Cedric would harm no one except to defend himself.  Tis it!  Cedric thought he be in danger.  Eduard was jesting, as he would, and Cedric did not understand.  I can think of no other reason.”  Aldus’s eyes pled for Sir John to tell him twas an awful joke Sherlock played, or that he be mistaken.

“We do not yet know the exact circumstances, but tis little doubt, very little, twas Cedric who killed Eduard, and purposefully.  I know tis a difficult thing to understand; you be a good friend to him and deserve better than to have him betray you like this.” 

Colin be moved by how Sir John handled Aldus’s concern.  He had heard that knights be arrogant, concerned only with their power and how to build more.  But not this one.   Sir John be firm, yet benevolent.  Kind.

_I think I like this Sir John._  

“Let us ready the horses," Sir John told Aldus.  "We leave as soon as everything be torn down and packed.  It will help take your mind off things.  We be many hours behind Cedric and the longer we take to leave, the harder it will be to find him.  When we do track him down, we will turn him over the sheriff.  We cannot let him go unpunished.”

Aldus slumped.  The fight had gone out of him.

“And Aldus, how be your stomach?  Did the pomegranate help settle it?”  A small smile lifted Sir John’s mouth and creased the sides of his eyes.  Though not many years older than Aldus, he acted a father trying to lift his son’s spirits.

Before answering, Aldus snuck a glance at Colin, and Colin gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.  _Your secret be safe with me._

“Better.  I feel better, Sir John.”  The smile Aldus gave Sir John be forced.

“Good, I be glad to hear it.”  Sir John clapped him on the arm and looked to Colin. 

“Since you be headed to London as well, will you be traveling with us?  No time for sleep, but you will be safer than if you go alone.”

“Yes, tis an excellent idea.  Thank you.”  Colin hid his relief.  He did not favour the woods; twas a frightening place to be alone.

“Good,” Sir John said.  “Aldus, I will help you with the horses.  You say you be fine, but you still look a little grey around the edges.  Colin, help Sherlock tear down the tents; tis easier with two.”

Colin turned toward the tents, but did not move.  Chewing on his lip, he debated the wisdom of doing so.

“Go on, he will not bite you.”  Sir John chuckled as if amused at the thought.

_I be not so sure about that._ But Sir John and Aldus walked away, and Colin knew he had no choice but to face the gargoyle.

In Leith, for the most part, people be agreeable.  True, there be coarse personalities, people who seemed to go out of their way to cause trouble.  But Colin had known them all of his life and was skilled at turning their harsh words into laughter.  His mother said he had a gentle nature, one that put people at ease.  He be not so sure Sherlock would be amenable to that gentle nature.  _Most likely it will make me prey._

He looked across the camp at Sir John and Aldus saddling the horses, attaching the cart.  Judged the distance between them and the tents; Sir John and Aldus be not so far that they would not hear a cry for help.  _I hope Sherlock does not resort to physical violence, but one never knows._   Colin took one last look at the fire, now extinguished, forlorn that he had not eaten; twould be some time before he had another opportunity. 

_I cannot delay any longer; I must tell Sherlock why I be here.  I just hope I can run fast enough if it does not go well._

Colin went into the tent and stood inside the open flap letting in the last daylight.  The open flap that be the only means of escape. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, giving himself a chance to practice exactly what he would say.  _Tis time.  I can do this._

“Sh-”

“Are you going to stand there and stare, or are you going to be useful?  Take the bedding to Aldus, and be quick about it.”  Sherlock jutted his finger at an untidy pile heaped on the ground.

A quaver in his voice, Colin tried again.  “Sher-” But this time twas not Sherlock’s words which cut him off, twas the look on his face.  Though Colin could not see it clearly, he saw enough to know that twas not the time to talk, let alone to divulge a secret about which Sherlock would likely not be happy.  He did not seem the type to endure the attachments of a family.

“ _Now._ I have no time to suffer fools.”  More to himself than Colin, Sherlock muttered, “I do not know how John has such patience, surrounding himself with dullards. Twould make the best of men mad.”

Inching over and grabbing the pile, Colin half-ran the span of the camp to give it to Aldus.

_That went well._ Colin rolled his eyes and cursed himself for being a coward. _Tis just as well.  It will take at least a day to get to London, and I shall have plenty of time to tell him._

“Do not take Sherlock’s ways to heart, he be decent enough once he gets to know you.”  Aldus took a portion of the bundle from Colin’s arms, stuffing it into a wooden box.   “And Sherlock’s as smart as they come, he is.  I was only angry with him for what he said about Cedric, but if Sherlock says Cedric killed Eduard, then I have no doubt he did.  But it does not make it any easier to believe.  I will miss Cedric; a good friend he was.” 

The smile Aldus gave Colin be a sad one as he took the rest of the bedding.  “I will finish this up; you had best get back to Sherlock.  I know he and Sir John want to leave straight away.” 

Determined not to be one of those dullards Sherlock seemed to abhor, Colin went back to the tent and set about proving to Sherlock he could do what be needed.  Well and efficiently.  More than once he caught Sherlock looking at him, the set of his face such that he be ready to find fault, but instead he would raise an eyebrow and nod.  A nod so minute Colin thought he might have imagined it, but he knew he had not.  Colin be pleased.  He be learning that when it came to Sherlock, that to not be scolded be as good as being praised. 

Everything packed, they set on their way.  Sir John and Sherlock taking the lead, they talked in voices so low Colin could not hear what they said. They seemed to enjoy an amiable company -- no raised voices, no sharp words.  Every so often they would lean in to each other to share a confidence in an even lower voice.  And more than once Colin heard them laugh.  Laugh!  Twas startling enough to hear merriment under such sober circumstances, but most of all twas startling to hear _Sherlock_ laugh.  From the few times Colin had seen Sherlock, never would he have guessed such a sound could have come forth from him.  

“Aldus,” Colin whispered loud enough for Aldus to hear him.

Aldus’s head jerked up from where it hung almost to his chest.  He blinked several times as if having woken.  “Hm? Huh?”  And he turned to Colin.  “What?”

“Tell me, what be Sherlock like?  You say he be decent.  Be he a squire for long?  From where does he say he comes?  Does he have family?”  Feeling at ease with Aldus, the questions fell out of Colin in quick succession without a thought to how they might sound. 

“If you have questions about Sherlock, it be best to ask him or Sir John.  Tis not my place to speak of their private matters behind their backs. I be loyal to Sir John and to those who serve him, and that includes Sherlock.”

The wariness in Aldus’s tone alerted Colin to his error.  _I be a stranger to them; twould seem odd for me to be so curious about Sherlock, and especially only Sherlock._

“Of course.  Of course, you be loyal.  Please forgive my intrusion.  Tis just that he reminds me of someone who once lived outside my town.  I will pursue it no further.”

To ease the tension, Colin entertained Aldus with a story about a man who one night went out for an ale and, somehow, in his drunken state, traded his wife for an ass.  Not sober enough to know he had spent the whole night with the animal in his bed until he woke up the next morning. 

With a willing listener and nowhere to be but atop a horse for hours on end, Colin took his time spinning the tale into something much wilder than it started.  Aldus joined in, adding his own details.  So engrossed were they in trying to outdo each other, they did not notice that Sherlock and Sir John had grown quiet.

“Sheep.”

“What say you, Sherlock?”  Aldus called out ahead of them.

“I say, twas a sheep, not an ass, for which Sedgewick traded his wife.”

_Shite.  Shite.  Shite.  How could I be so stupid?  Of course Sherlock knows about Sedgewick; the tale has gone around Leith for years.  Now he knows from where I be.  Unless…he already knew?_

To Colin’s great relief, Sherlock did not pursue the matter.  Twas not appealing to have a conversation in the middle of the night about found family.  In front of Sir John and Aldus.  Besides, they be getting light-headed from lack of sleep.  At least Colin knew _he_ was.

With their conversations tapering off, the group of men moved quickly through the night and most of the next day, stopping only to relieve themselves and to see to the needs of the horses. Late in the afternoon, they finally found themselves outside the walls of London, the sounds of the vast city an assault to their senses after the quiet of the woods, the peacefulness of the valleys.

Colin’s awe at the the _enormity _of it all almost making him forget why he be there.__


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Burning_Up_A_Sun for taking your time and talent to look my chapters over; they are better for it. <3

“Sir John.  I asked you what you think.  How can you tell me if you do not look at me?”

“I did look.”  

“You call that a look?  The glimpse you gave me be but no more time than the flap of a hummingbird’s wing.”

John’s back to Sherlock, he flexed his jaw from side to side, shoring up his strength to turn around. 

He had only himself to blame for how enticing Sherlock be.  True, after being in London a day and having made no progress in their search for Cedric, it had been a joint decision to go to Cedric’s aunt’s house.  And yes, it had been Sherlock who had said he should be the one to go; better he be at observing small things that others overlook.  And _yes,_ it had been Sherlock’s idea that he conceal himself because he would be better able to gather information than John, of whom Cedric’s family might be wary.  But it had been John’s fault to suggest Sherlock pose as a Common Council overseer; the ruse would gain Sherlock access to every area of the house.  The problem be, John had never realised how, uhm, revealing their attire be.  Not until he saw it on Sherlock.

S _herlock, my love, my heart.  How can thou think I did not see all I needed to see?  And that the sight of thee does not make me want to rip thy clothes off and take thee with feverish abandon?  Ney, tis not right.   I want to lay thee gently on the bed.  Shed thee of thy garments one tantalising whit of fabric at a time.  Push aside the cloth with my tongue, your hot skin burning me.  Slip my fingers under the waist of thy hose, pulling them down over the plain of thy belly, the bulge of thy manhood.  Down over thy strong thighs, revealing thy milky white flesh to me.  And thou will drive me mad with desire, so mad I fear I will explode.  And I will take thy member in my mouth, suckle it at my pleasure til thou trembles, crying out my name-_  

“John?”

“You look fine.  Just,” John cleared his throat, “fine, Sherlock.  I would have no trouble at all perceiving you as an overseer.”

“Sir John, look at me.  Tell me to my face.”

_As if that be where I would look._

Pinching his eyes shut, John sighed and faced Sherlock.  _Jesus, how can such a brilliant man be so naïve?  To have not a clue what he does to me?_ When he opened his eyes, the smirk on Sherlock’s face told John that Sherlock knew very well the effect he had on him.

Sherlock’s curls, washed and tamed.  A burnished brown just this side of black, they peeked out from under the rim of the hat, beckoning John to touch them.

A clean-shaven jaw, smooth and fragrant, begging to be kissed.

Thighs and calves, vigorous and strong, covered by hose that left no muscle undefined, no curve uncherished.   

Sherlock’s chest, in its fitted tunic, displayed broad shoulders and a tapered waist.  The better to be held.

But worst of all?  What caused John the most agony be what he could not see.  And it be so very, very close.  Hidden just behind the tunic that (barely) reached the tops of Sherlock’s thighs.  Torture it be. Torture.  Looking at the juncture where Sherlock’s legs met the tunic, John’s palm felt hot, as if he had already cupped Sherlock… _there_ _._

John saw all of this.  And the desire flaming in the depths of Sherlock’s eyes.

_A man can only take so much, Sherlock._

_Tis yours.  And I have no doubt you can take **all** of it. _

_Quit smirking.  It makes me want to-_

_To what, Sir John?_

His face flushing, not with embarrassment but with want, his groin uncomfortable with need, John’s gaze slid to where Aldus lay.  Even were Aldus sleeping, as he appeared to do, twas no time.  Taking a deep breath, and another, John forced himself to think about that which he _ought_ to be thinking.

“As tempting as you be, and you be _very_ tempting, we must be off.  We have spent far too much time in preparation, and if Cedric has gone to his aunt’s house, he could have already left.  You have everything you need?”

“Yes, John, for the hundredth time, I be ready.”  Sherlock held up the paper on which he had scribed a counterfeit Official Decree of Inspection, giving the ink a last few moments to dry before he rolled it and tied it.

“You remember what I told you to say?  And that you are to act as haughty and bored as possible?  Take thy time as you search the house.  No overseer is going hurry.  You have to appear as if you be a public servant doing tedious work.”

“Act bored.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, I know, you be born bored.”  A smile crept onto John’s mouth, and he pivoted Sherlock around to block Aldus’s view should he wake, reaching out to trace his hand over the velvety fabric that caressed a smooth hip.  “Once Cedric be safely detained, then we will find someplace private and I will see to it that you forget the word ‘bored’ exists.  How does that sound?”  More from longing than a desire to seduce, he slicked his lips with his tongue.

“Hmph.  I think you know the answer to that.”  Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips against John’s, his warm breath intoxicating.  “I wish you would have let me talk to the sheriff.  I would have convinced him that it be in his best interest to arrest Cedric and we would right now be ‘forgetting’.”

“It be hard enough to get him to talk to _me_ after you called him an idiot and a crooked-nose knave.  Cedric’s family be well connected, and twas so princely a sum the sheriff required that I would have to return to Cambridge to secure such a large amount.”

“His problem twas not the money; too fat to move, be more like it.”

“Unlike thee.”  John found Sherlock’s hip bone, stroking its ridge with his thumb.  “Thou be long, and lean, and –”

Footsteps outside the door, the handle creaking as it turned, startled them into taking quick steps away from each other to conceal the damning evidence of their affections.

_Do not be so impatient, Sir John._

_If thou knew at what I see, thou would be impatient, too._

_I have no need to know, I have thee at which to look._

John puckered his lips and blew Sherlock a kiss.    _I love thee._

A breathless Colin flew through the door.  “The physician be busy and will not come til nightfall.”  Looking between Sherlock and John, a faint blush rose to his cheeks, and he looked down.

_Be we so easy to read?  We had best be more cautious.  We do not know this Colin and where his loyalties lie._   

“Thank you, Colin.  I know you must be anxious to see your family, but if I may impose, be you amenable to staying a bit longer?  Sherlock has pressing business and tis necessary I accompany him.”

“No, no, you go.  My family be not expecting me…so soon.”  With a hooded look toward Sherlock, Colin shifted his gaze to the man lying on the bed.  Aldus had been sleeping, fitfully, ever since they arrived in London.  “I—I have not shared this with you, Sir John, because Aldus did not want to worry you, he feared you would send him home, but I have reason to believe Aldus has been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?!”  John shot a look to Sherlock and turned back to Colin.

“Yes.  He be ill, sick to the stomach when I met him, and again during the night as we rode.  And after some persistence I persuaded him to tell me it has happened several times in the last few days.  You have seen him stumble, have you not?  Tis not because he be tired, though certainly tis not helpful, but his foot goes numb.  His hands, too. I believe his symptoms be from arsenic poisoning. Tis no sure way to know, not unless he dies and they examine his liver, and that, of course, be nothing for which we wish, but my mother has seen several such cases; humble woman that she be, she be known for her knowledge of medicine.  And poisons.” 

Colin lifted his gaze to the ceiling, thinking through the rest of it.  “Yes, I would say tis arsenic poisoning, but what I do not understand is how it would have happened. To be poisoned, one must eat tainted food.  Neither of you be ill, nor I, of course, but then I ate little of the food you have.  Only time will tell if Aldus has taken enough poison to kill him.  When the physician comes, he will bring with him a compound that could draw the poison out.”  

_Cedric?_ John asked Sherlock.

_He killed Eduard and stabbed thee.  Tis conformity with those attacks, hidden acts that could conceivably be blamed on me.  Ahhh!  Tis why he be so anxious to be of help, to cook the meals.  But if Colin be right, where did Cedric get the arsenic?_

John regarded both Sherlock and Aldus, torn between accompanying his love, who may need his protection whilst at Cedric’s home, and staying with Aldus, who did not deserve to have had such a fate thrust upon him.  Unsure if he be angrier with himself for being so oblivious to Cedric’s dark character, or at Cedric for harming his charge.

“Go with Sherlock,” Colin said, reading the indecision on John’s face. “Go, Sir John, Sherlock.  I will look after him until the physician comes.”

“If you be sure…”

“I be sure.”

“Tis settled.  Sherlock?”  John’s tone, hard as flint, twas more a command than a question.

Whilst rolling the paper into a scroll and tying it with a purple ribbon, Sherlock trained his gaze on Colin, and said, “You be not as useless as you look.”

Colin beamed, and, as if he realised how indelicate his smile be in the circumstances, he let it fall flat.  “You be welcome.”

“I did not thank you.”

“Yes, you did.”  Colin cocked his head, appraising Sherlock, who studied him in return as he threw his cloak over his shoulders.

Sherlock followed John out of the inn; the sounds of the city that be muffled whilst they be inside, now a dull roar.  Side by side they twisted through the throngs, the crowds thinning as they reached a ward more abundant with homes than businesses.  As they walked, John tested Sherlock on what he was to say to access Cedric’s aunt’s household, what he was to do when he entered.  Twas not that John thought Sherlock too feeble-minded to remember, for who had a greater facility than Sherlock?  But if John did not stifle his rage, he be in danger of doing something rash.  In danger of storming Cedric’s house himself.  And twould do no good for Cedric and his family to know John be in the city; he and Sherlock would be unable to catch Cedric unaware if Cedric be about.

When the house be within sight, they stopped, and John cautioned one more time, “If Cedric be in the house, leave as quickly as thou can without raising suspicion.  If he be so adept at killing, he will not think twice if he knows thee be in his home.  I will wait outside, far enough that I be not easily seen, but not so far that should thou signal me I cannot come to thy aid.  But thou can only signal me if thou safely come outside.  Understand?  Thou are not to be brave.  Tis not yours to take him on alone.

“Though now I be not so sure I want us to find Cedric ourselves; likely to murder him, I be.  And I have no desire to be executed for ridding the Earth of such worthlessness.  Christ, how could I be so blind?”

If he had not been so preoccupied with his anger at Cedric, and of keeping Sherlock safe, John would have noticed that not once had Sherlock interrupted him.  Not to correct him, mock him, or add what Sherlock thought John might have missed.  Had he noticed, it would have made John uncomfortable, thinking that Sherlock be not attentive. Not knowing that it would have been because Sherlock be as intent on bringing Cedric to justice as be John.

John pulled the front flaps of Sherlock’s cloak together.  Not so much to shield from view the body he wanted no one else to see, but to have an excuse to touch Sherlock.  To be close.

“Be careful.”  _I love thee._ “And remember- bored, lazy, and-”

“Stupid,” Sherlock finished for him.  “Thou has so little faith, John.  Will this do?”

Mesmerised, John watched Sherlock change into the rest of his disguise - this time not with clothing, but in manner.  Gone be the keenness about Sherlock’s eyes, replaced by a dullness that John would never have guessed Sherlock could possess.  Sherlock’s body grew lax.  Not so much that he stooped, but his shoulders hunched just enough that John felt the weight of an uninteresting life. And as Sherlock walked away, as intimately as John knew him, John thought he might not recognise him had he not known it be him, so different be his gait, his bearing.  Sherlock’s transformation be complete.  The only feature that could have given away his true personage be his cheekbones.  But John thought they would not attract attention if not associated with the usual brightness of Sherlock’s eyes, the regalness of his natural stature.

_In all my days I have never met anyone as wondrous as him, and never will I again.  Be there anything he cannot do, and do well?_

John waited not so far down the street that he could not see Sherlock knock on the door, watch him hold up the scroll to the answering servant and, after a short exchange, gain entrance to the house. 

Looking up and down the street John took in the dank dreariness of it.  Took in the old man carrying a cage of chickens, their squawks and flapping wings compelling him to hold the cage as far from him as possible, but not so far that he be relieved of their furor.  Took in the exasperated woman who swatted a small boy’s bum, and instead of being chastised, the boy stuck his tongue out and taunted her by running out of her reach.  These be what John’s eyes looked upon, but not what he saw.  Never out of his sight be the house into which Sherlock went.  Knowing he had told Sherlock not to hurry.  Knowing that Sherlock should not be in harm’s way.  But John worried, all the same. 

_What takes him so long, goddammit?  Has something gone amiss?  Be Cedric in the house and recognised Sherlock?_

John rubbed his hands together, warding off, if not a chill, because twas not overly cold, but his unease.  It did not work; his worry grew.  If Sherlock be detained, twas not because he sat down to tea.

_It has been too long, Sherlock.  I will count to thirty, and if thou not be out by then, I will storm the house; God help anyone if they have harmed thee._ Finished counting, he took a step toward the house, but its door opened and Sherlock emerged unscathed.   _Praise God._ An enormous huff of air escaped John, leaving him weak from relief.  

Sherlock sought John out and, giving a tight nod, walked toward him.  John, too, started walking, heading in the direction of the inn.  Sherlock would take little time catching up with him. 

“Cedric be not in the house, but he has been.  Very recently.”  Sherlock kept his voice low, ducking his head whenever someone passed near them.  “Next to a bed that could only be his, there be boot prints from dried mud.  The prints be too large to belong to any other occupants of the house, and the rest of the house be meticulously clean; before I left, the housemaid had already cleaned the mud I brought in on my boots.  The woman I presume be his aunt be very nervous when I entered his room, saying he be most adamant that no one go in there, not even her or their housemaid.  That he be peculiarly private.  And there be one more setting at the table than be people in the house.”

“To whom did she say the room belonged?”

“She said the room be that of a distant cousin who frequently travels, but that he be the master of the house.  That it be her duty to do with the house as he wished.  We will have to stay and watch for him, John.  I have no doubt he uses the back entrance, and probably not during daylight; he will not come and go through the front if he be smart.  Not that I would rely on that smartness, given what he has shown himself to be.” 

 

* * *

“This be useless!”  Sherlock tugged the filthy rag wrapped around his face down to his neck, wrinkling his nose at the stench of it.  “For three days and nights we have watched the house.  For three days and nights we have dressed up in these… _beggar_ clothes.” Sherlock pushed away from the wall against which he leaned.  “I was certain Cedric would return.  I have not the patience to sit here for weeks waiting for him, and the city be too large to search for him.  Let us go.” 

As much as John wanted to trap Cedric, he had dreaded the moment they did, and now it seemed they would not.  With nothing left to hold him, Sherlock would be in search of his family.  And lost to John forever.  

_As much as I love him, his happiness be more important than keeping him where he does not want to stay.  And if finding his family be what brings him happiness, then I must let him go._

With a heavy heart, John walked after Sherlock, his steps leaden; the sooner they returned to the inn, the sooner Sherlock would be on his way.  John did not know how he could face saying goodbye to the man who, in such a short time, had come to mean so much to him.  The man who, if John were to admit the truth to himself, had come to mean _everything_.

“John?”  Slowing, Sherlock, looked back to where John lagged behind him, the annoyance marring Sherlock’s features prompting John to catch up. 

They walked together.  Perhaps closer together than be proper, but John hoped it revealed that despite Sherlock’s plans to leave, Sherlock might be experiencing some of the same sense of loss as did he.

_No, not mere loss…grief, it be.  Well, Sir John the Courageous, tis time to face what be inevitable.  It will not get any easier._ John straightened his shoulders, raised his jaw; twas not unlike heading into battle. 

“Sherlock, I think it be time-”

At the exact instant that John spoke, Sherlock, too, started to speak.  “Sir John, it be time-”

_Here it comes._ John took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.  “Yes, Sherlock.  I know, and I will not try to stop thee.  Tis not easy for me, not at all.”  John could not hold his gaze on Sherlock; it be too painful.  “But I know what thee needs to do, and as—as difficult it be for me, you have my blessing.”

Sherlock slowed again, causing John to stop and turn around to see what he be doing.

They be small tells - the shape of Sherlock’s brow, the tilt of his mouth, the slant of his eye - but John be so familiar with Sherlock, he saw the surprise,and then the admiration pass over Sherlock’s face.  And if possible, John loved him that much more. 

“Why, John, I have underestimated thee; never would I have thought thou would be so agreeable.  Surprised I be, and I so rarely be surprised.  But then, when it comes to thee, I should learn to expect no less.”

“Tis important to thee,” John said.  “I cannot say it pleases me, far from it, but I understand what it is thou needs to do.  I love thee, and would never get in between thee and thy happiness.”

“I be pleased to hear that not only does thou agree with me, but that thou wholeheartedly supports me.” 

“When does thou leave?”  John glanced at Sherlock and looked away again.  He could not bear the pleasure he saw on Sherlock’s face.  _Be it so easy to leave me_? 

“What?”

“When does thou-”

“I heard thee clearly, John, and have not a clue of what thou speaks.  I go nowhere.”

John’s eyes widening, they met Sherlock’s.  “Do you not leave to seek your family?  As you said, Cedric be beyond our grasp, and thou has mentioned many times thou believes that thou will find clues to thy family’s whereabouts in London.  Especially after thou spoke with Gareth.”

“Cedric be not beyond our grasp.  I be relieved to know I was not wrong about underestimating you.  What I was going to say, John, is that I have a plan to flush out Cedric.  I have no intention of letting that vermin believe he has outwitted me.  Besides, tis impossible for him to do; his intellect be laughably inferior.” 

“So, thou does not intend to leave?”  He wanted to add “me.”

“No.  Did you not hear what I said?”

John let himself smile.  _Sherlock does not yet leave._ “I heard what thou said.  So, how does thou intend to flush out Cedric?  What brilliant plan have you brewed in that beautiful brain of yours?  And by the way, you _could_ have told me thou be working on one.”

“I be telling you now.  Please, John, do keep up.”

“Yes, love,” John said, amusement playing about his eyes and mouth.  “So what be the answer to my question?  How will we bring Cedric out of hiding?

“Simple, John.  He will come to us when I compete in the jousting tournament.  In thy stead.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the luminous Burning_Up_A_Sun for your time and insights! (See what I did there? Huh? Huh? lol). And a bit of hand holding on this one. <3

John laughed.  Not a giggle, a cackle, or even a hearty chuckle.  No, twas a full-body laugh that held no mirth. And when he stopped, the last of the sound leaving him, he stared at Sherlock, stony-eyed. 

“I believe the words you uttered be ‘I will compete in the jousting tournament in thy stead.’ But I think what you meant be, ‘I, Sherlock, be a complete and utter fool.  I love thee, John, but tis not important.  No, I wish to die an early death.  I will throw my life away in _PURE MADNESS_.”  His face flushed, John struggled to measure his words.   

“Of what do you speak, John?  I-” 

“ _Just._ _Stop. Talking_ , Sherlock.”

“John, I-”                                     

Holding up his hand, John said, “Stop.  Do not speak again until you have something intelligent to say.”  Muttering under his breath, “Joust.  Tis the most arsed-brained, ridiculous-”

Bumped into by a man walking past him, Sherlock stumbled into John, frowning at John’s hands as they impatiently pushed him away. 

“Listen to me, John; the idea be not so ridiculous.  How successful have we been in finding Cedric?  We have waited days, with no fruit for our efforts.  To look for him in this city be folly; there be too many places he could be in hiding, without a hint of where to start looking. When I go to the tournament-” Despite the warning look John shot at him, Sherlock finished what he be saying.  “Yes, _when_ I go to the tournament, he will come to us.”

John raised an eyebrow that said _I highly doubt it, but I be curious to hear why thee thinks that could work._

“When Cedric hears thou be confirmed to joust, he will be doubtful because of your injury, but he will hope for you to show yourself.  He will go to the tournament to see thee, because he loves thee.  Tis a twisted and mad love, to be true, but tis an emotion that he recognises to be love.”

“But why does thou think he would risk being caught?  I have no doubt he treasures his freedom.”

“Because, he would have to see thee one last time.  Tis what I would do.” 

Sherlock’s face be free of guile, as be his words. John could not help but be touched, some of his anger seeping from him. 

“Tis a death wish, Sherlock; capturing Cedric be not worth your life.  You have no training.  Not to mention, no one will believe thou be me; thou be a head taller than me.”

“People believe what they want to believe, John.  Dressed in your armour, adorned with your crest, adapting your mannerisms.  In the back of their minds they may question it, but they will not seriously consider it to be anyone but you.  As thou says, what fool would take thy place?  Thou should know by now, John, I be no fool.  I would not undertake this if I did not think it the best way to rid our lives of Cedric.”

Unconvinced, John shook his head.  “No, Sherlock I cannot let thee do this; tis not your fight. I do not mean the tournament, but Cedric.  He be my concern, not thine; tis not thee he tries to kill.  Yes, tis no doubt a great inconvenience to thee to have him imply thou committed his crimes, but there be no proof twas thee, and there be plenty that it be him.”

“Anything that concerns thee concerns me.  Tis little difference.”

John looked away to shield Sherlock from reading his face.  _Goddamn him.  Goddamn him to Hell._

Who be this man who walked beside him? He knew well his name be Sherlock, from where he came, and the enormous capacity of his brain. But the capacity of his heart?  To take on John’s battles as his own?  Sherlock had said as much, as if it were fact.  As if it just _was._ In John’s experience, twas unheard of to have someone sacrifice themselves as Sherlock had already done and promised to do, without asking anything in return. 

John struggled for the right words.  Though it seemed wholly insufficient, he wanted thank Sherlock.  Wanted to somehow tell Sherlock how filled with love for him he be, sure he would fall far short in any attempt to tell Sherlock how much he meant to him. 

But what would be the point?  Soon Sherlock would leave…if he did not get himself killed first.  

And what be the chances of trying to talk Sherlock out of it?  Sherlock be as willful as a child; once he got something in his head, he lost sight of everything else.  True, John could not think of one time Sherlock had been wrong, one time that Sherlock’s ideas be unreasoned or impractical, but this be different.  Jousting be a battle of cunning and skill, of experience; these Sherlock did not have, except for the cunning.  Twas not enough this time. 

John had watched his wife Eda die.  Had watched his son die.  The grief from those deaths had prostrated him.  But the thought of watching Sherlock die?  Twould surely kill him.

John knew what he needed to do.  He needed to cushion his heart the best he be able so that when Sherlock, whether by death or choice, no longer be with him, John would have the strength to carry on.  To live a life that, whilst not as happy as he enjoyed with Sherlock, would still have purpose.  Perhaps he should get serious about finding another wife as so many he knew suggested he do.  Yes, tis what he would do.  Once the joust be over, and Sherlock left to seek his family (If he be alive to do so), John would return to Cambridge and find a suitable wife.

His face free of expression, John turned to Sherlock.  “Do as you please. If you want to joust, tis none of my concern.  Tis your life to do with as you wish.”

As he spoke, John saw Sherlock’s eyes flicker the first time he used the less intimate “you.”  Saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow the second time John said “you”.  Saw Sherlock stiffen when he told him that Sherlock be none of his concern.

John swallowed the bitterness that rose from his stomach.  What he told Sherlock be more than a lie; it be a betrayal of his own soul.  Little be more important than if Sherlock lived or died.  It took all of John’s strength to keep from taking Sherlock in his arms, holding him as if he would never let go.  From telling him he did not mean it, not a word.  Through pure will, John did none of those things, instead, meeting Sherlock’s gaze, sure and steady. 

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and pulled him behind a cart.  The cart, piled high with crates and set close to a building, provided enough privacy that no one would see John and Sherlock.

“I know thee thinks the plan is reckless, but I do not intend on going in blind.  I have no more wish for me to die than thou does.  So stop this.”    

“Stop what?” 

“Stop acting as if thou does not care.  Thou tried once before to tell me thou did not love me.  I told thee that if thou said it again, I might believe thee. But I assure thee, I will not.” 

Sherlock leaned down to kiss John.  To, John suspected, bring about a response that showed how much John did indeed love him.  But Sherlock’s lips missed their mark, hitting flesh below a cheek when John turned his head.

“Stubborn fool,” Sherlock spat, leaning away.  “I only do it so we be free of Cedric.  When he be imprisoned, like the animal he be, we can-”

“We can what, Sherlock?”  John faced Sherlock, staring him down.  “Get married?  Declare our love for all to see?  Have babies?  Tis not me who be stubborn.  You do not see the impracticalities of a life together.  _If_  you live.”

“Babies?  Be that what this is about?” 

John felt Sherlock’s scrutiny more than he saw it.  A look that seemed to take in every feature on John’s face, from his unwavering gaze to the set of his mouth.  The tightening of his jaw.

“Ahhh, I suppose it is,” Sherlock said.  “Thou be right; I cannot give thee children.  And thou be a childless father.  How stupid of me to think that it no longer be something for which thou longed.”

The hurt on Sherlock’s face made John ache to tell Sherlock that he be all John needed to be happy.  Made John want to kiss away Sherlock’s fears, to hold him in his arms and tell him everything would be all right.  But everything would not be all right, would it?  If, by some miracle, Sherlock came through the joust unscathed, then he would leave to seek his family.  And if Sherlock did find them, how would John fit into that setting?  No, twas better for Sherlock to think John wanted children.  Twas best to start the break now. 

“I must get back to the inn; I need to check on Aldus.”  John looked away, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.  He wanted to push Sherlock out of his way, the fear of touching him and not being able to let Sherlock go, stopping him. 

“This be it, then?  Thou gives up on us?  I expected better from thee, John.” Sherlock towered over John, his hand on the wall at John’s back.  His eyes inscrutable.

“Us?  I love you, Sherlock, that I cannot deny.  But there can never be an ‘us’.  Be that not obvious?  Now get out of my way, I am going back to the inn.  Do whatever you like.”  

It took several beats until Sherlock moved, time he used to examine John’s face.  Time that seemed to last forever whilst John wondered if Sherlock could hear his thundering heart, could feel the heat of skin that burned with frustration.   Could sense the threads of grief that began to curl through John.  Something crossed Sherlock’s face that John could not place; whatever it be, it prompted Sherlock to back away, to allow John to move past him whilst Sherlock followed a few steps behind.  The silence between be them more deafening than the din of the crowded street along which they walked.

When he entered their room at the inn, John masked his weariness as he sat on the end of Aldus’s bed, careful not to jostle him; the squire had come close, far too close, to losing his fight against the poison.  Forcing a smile, John asked, “How be the patient today?  You look much better than you did last I saw you.  Some colour in your cheeks now,” John said approvingly.  “Colin takes good care of you, I see.” 

The smile John threw Colin went unnoticed as the lad be intent on Sherlock.  _Tis odd how often I catch Colin staring at Sherlock with such great interest.  What about Sherlock be so fascinating?_   John knew why he himself thought so, but he found that in general others found Sherlock objectionable.  

“Better, Sir,” Aldus said.  “The physician has been here again today and said I should keep improving.  I will be up and about in no time, he said.  I be sorry I have not been able to attend to you, Sir John.  I know I have been remiss, but surely Sherlock has attended to you well.”

“Tis not the time to worry about your duties.”  John patted Aldus’s leg, his smile more genuine as his gratitude for Aldus’s recovery pushed aside the argument he had had with Sherlock.  “The important thing be that you be hale soon.  I just be sorry I did not know about Cedric; I hold myself responsible for not protecting you.”

“No, Sir, no.  I would never blame you.  If anyone be to blame, tis me.  I knew he did not like Sherlock.  But never would I have thought-”

“Enough.”  Sherlock spoke sharply from where he still stood just inside the door.  “What Cedric has done be no one’s fault but his own, and trying to place blame elsewhere be a waste of breath and time.  What we must concentrate on be ensnaring him.  John, where be your armour?”

“My armour?  Why?”  The change of subject caught John off guard, and his head snapped toward Sherlock.

“Why do you think?  If I am to joust, I will not be doing it in this.”  Sherlock plucked at the arm of his shirt.  “If you be so worried about my safety, you should know I need protection, and I believe a suit of armour be customary when jousting.  Be I wrong?”

_Brilliant!  Why did I not think of that?  There be no possibility of Sherlock fighting without armour.  Even if he be daft enough to try, he would not be allowed._ John gloated in his triumph, albeit an unexpected triumph.  “It will not fit you, Sherlock, twas custom made.  And tis too late for a blacksmith to create a suit for you.  I believe your plans are for naught; you will not be able to compete.”

“Sherlock!  Compete in the joust?  I did not know you be trained.”  In his excitement, Aldus lifted himself to his elbows.  “Why I be surprised, I do not know.  As quickly as you took to the sword, it did seem as if you had some aptitude.  Now I know why.”  Aldus sagged back down onto the bed, weary from the exertion.

Ignoring Aldus, Sherlock addressed John.  “I do not intend to have a suit made for me; I will have yours modified to fit me.”

A smile that did not reach John’s eyes tipped up the edges of his lips. “I wish you luck finding a blacksmith who has the time; they will be very busy, the tournament be days away.”

_Admit it, Sherlock, as clever as you be, this be beyond even your reach._

_If there be one thing thou should have learned about me, Sir John, tis to never underestimate me._

“Colin.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”  Never having taken his eyes off of Sherlock, Colin’s response be out of his mouth almost before Sherlock be finished saying his name.

“You be a blacksmith, be you not? 

Colin’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?  I be an apprentice, but I have assisted in making several suits.” 

“Twas simple enough to construe.  Your hands be those of someone who works with fire and iron.  Burns on your fingers and arms where the sparks landed, the grayish hues you have not been able to wash from your skin.  The thick knobs of skin where you held your tongs and hammer.  Some of this could be attributed to other types of labour, but your arms be very strong and your legs not.  I be not sure of it until you said so.  Now.  Be you able to modify Sir John’s suit?  And within the time allotted? It will need to be as sound as if were made for me.”  

“I will need measurements, and to see the suit, but I believe I can.” Colin eyed Sherlock’s frame.  “It will take time.  Not as much time as if making one from the beginning, but nearly every piece will need to be lengthened or enlarged.  Your shoulders be broader, your hands larger, and, of course, your limbs and trunk be longer than Sir John’s, but I believe with added pieces of iron and pounding existing ones out to thin and stretch them, twould be easy enough to do.  To find the iron may be harder than the work itself.  And I will need tools and a forge.”

Sherlock listened to Colin, watching him think it through.  “You say ‘I believe I can,’ ‘I think I can.’  Can you or can you not? ‘ If’ and ‘maybe’ be insufficient.”

Resolute, Colin stood up from where he still sat by Aldus.  “I can, Sherlock. I can, and I will.”

“Good.  We will get started right away.  John, your armour be stored with the rest of the supplies?”

“I have had enough."  His fury barely contained, John sprang from where he sat, on his way to the door grabbing his purse from the table and his cloak from the back of a chair.  "I will not listen to any more of this foolishness."

“John.”

“What?” John snapped at Sherlock, his hand on the open door. 

“Where will we find you if we have questions?”

“If you have questions, find the answers yourself.  You always do.” With a last withering look at Sherlock, John slammed the door behind him and marched out to the street. Putting as much distance as he could between himself and that addle-brained idiot before he stormed back into the room and did something he regretted.  

_Christ. How did it come to this?_


	19. Chapter 19

Flinching when the door slammed, Sherlock kept watching it as if it might reveal the answer to John’s unreasonable behaviour.  Or, as if after his fit of temper, John would burst back through it just as quickly as he had left, only, with a smile on his face.  One that said how very much he loved Sherlock. 

Behind Sherlock, Colin and Aldus yammered about the joust, their voices rising in excitement. 

Raising Sherlock’s ire.

“I be with Sir John last time he be here, and I know where you can get some of what you need.  Tis a blacksmith Sir John has used who-”

“Colin,” Sherlock said sharply, interrupting Aldus _._   “Come with me; we need to bring the armour to the room.”  Without waiting to see if Colin followed, Sherlock left, half expecting to see John outside.  He be disappointed when he did not.  _John will return soon; I have no doubt._

“You will be fine alone?” Colin asked Aldus as he ran after Sherlock.

“Go, go.”  Aldus waved him off. “I be fine.”

Returning to the room with a crate carried between them, Sherlock’s and Colin’s faces be red from the strain of carrying the cumbersome box. 

Aldus laughed.  “Such weaklings you be.  Just watch.  When I be well again, I will pick it up with Sir John _in_ it.” 

The crate’s contents clanging as they set it on the floor, for the first time Sherlock felt a twinge of doubt that he could carry out his plan.  For the first time, he saw a flaw in it.  To ride a horse?  Twas simple enough.  To reason the lance’s angle for an an accurate hit?  Twas easy enough a child could do it.  But to dress his body in one hundred pounds of unyielding iron whilst he did so?  Twas a daunting thought. 

Sherlock and Colin pried the lid off of the crate.  One by one Colin withdrew pieces of the suit, placing them on Sherlock, measuring, taking notes.  Staring at a cuirass or cuisse, and puzzling over how to adjust it to protect Sherlock.  Intent on his task, Colin spoke little save for the occasional question: “How does this feel, Sherlock?” - “Does this pinch you?” - “Can you breathe?”  

The morning dragged into the afternoon.  As much as he be able, Sherlock tempered his restlessness, concentrating on the strategies Aldus be giving him to dismount the other rider as swiftly as possible.  But it be difficult.  Every piece of armour reminded him of John; armour that had touched John’s skin touched his.  It be as if John’s body be wrapped around him.  Twas exquisite torture.

_Why be John so angry?_

_Tis_ _not that John does not love me; he said he did not deny it.  If tis because John wants children, why does that mean he cannot be here now?_

The sound of footsteps, faint at first, grew louder as they neared the door.  _John!_ Sherlock’s heart fluttered, erratic in its anticipation.  _Finally._   But the footsteps diminished, taking the person away, and Sherlock swore at the door, cursing it for its betrayal.

_Where be John?  Why does it take him so long to do whatever he be doing?  He be not happy with me, but tis not like him to run off like this.  Or be it?  No, I have known John but a short time, but I know who he be.  He be kind and compassionate. And loyal._

Colin heaved a sigh and set down the gauntlet he had been trying to fit to Sherlock.  “Sherlock, why do we not rest?  I can start putting together a list of what I need.  We will try again later.”

Sherlock frowned.  “Rest?  Why?  We be not half done.”  He pointed at the crate; annoyed that Colin could not see how much work they had left to do.

“Yes, I see, but you do not stand still.  Your fussing grows worse and tis difficult to measure you when you move all about the place.”

“I do not _fuss._ ”  Sherlock bristled. 

“Yes, you do.  Something be bothering you, and you barely hear a word I say; you keep looking at the door.  You be like a covered pot ready to boil over.”  Nearly as tall as Sherlock, when he stood up straight, Colin’s gaze be level with Sherlock’s.  “He will be back.”

“He?” 

“He.”  Colin lifted his eyebrow at Sherlock’s weak attempt to show he be unsure of whom Colin spoke.

“Oh, Sir John?  Tis no matter to me.”  Sherlock feigned indifference, but as he met Colin’s eyes, he saw a confidence that had not been there days before.  Day by day Colin had grown less shy, and the skittish boy Sherlock had first met had somehow transformed into a young man who spoke his mind.  No longer did he cower.

“Sir John,” Colin affirmed.

Sherlock’s gaze strayed to the door that still had not moved, and quickly shifted his attention back to Colin, daring him to say something.

Footsteps again brought someone toward the door, and Sherlock braced himself against hope twould be John; last time his hope had been for nothing.  But this time they stopped, and were followed by a light rap.    _Why does John knock, and not come in?_   It mattered little; the important thing be that John be back.  The gauntlet clattering as it fell, Sherlock dashed to the door, the smile on his face falling when he saw twas the innkeeper’s daughter. 

Sherlock glanced around to see if anyone else be about.  No one.  “What do you want?” He glowered at the girl.

Steadfast despite his churlishness, the girl held something out to him.  “This be for you, Sir.”  Dropping a small bag into his hand, her skirt swung as she whirled to leave.

The bag had to be from John; Sherlock knew no one else in the city.  Loosening the string, he peered inside; it be full of coins.  No doubt one or two be “borrowed” by the innkeeper before the girl brought it.  

“Where be the man who gave this to you?”  Sherlock called after her. 

“I got no idea, Sir.  I didn’t see no one; me mother gave it to me and told me to bring it to this room.  And now I have.”  She be gone before Sherlock could ask her anything else.   

The purse be stout in Sherlock’s palm.  His relief at the tentative connection to John be replaced by a discontentment greater than he had had before the girl came.   _Why did not John bring it himself?  Does he intend to stay away?  What about the joust?  What about Aldus?_

_What about me?_

A nudge at his back pushing him forward, Sherlock planted a foot down.  “Why did you do that?” 

“We be going out,” Colin said.  “I see you have money, and we have things to buy.”  He brushed past Sherlock and out the door.

Unused to being ordered about by Colin, Sherlock hesitated.  Who did Colin think he be, telling him what to do?  But at that moment, Sherlock wanted to be anywhere but the room that seemed to get smaller and smaller.  Anywhere that John was not, but should be.   He caught up with Colin.

“Where do we go?”

“Aldus gave me the names of merchants who sell the tools we need.”  Colin held out a crudely drawn map of streets, their names written by an awkward hand.  “Tis better than watching you pout.  Some fresh air will do you good.”

“I do not-” Sherlock caught himself.  It seemed he be having to defend himself too much today.  He walked alongside Colin, mindless of where they went.  Finding it harder and harder to think of anything but John.  Where _be_ he?

Colin’s legs as long as his, Sherlock found he could walk as fast as he desired, and right now he needed to walk very fast.  Needed to leave behind the feeling that he had left something behind.  But it felt strange not to check his stride as he did with John.  Felt strange not to have the smaller man beside him. 

“He will be back.”  So casually Colin did say it, he could have been remarking on the weather.

This time Sherlock did not pretend he be unaware of whom Colin spoke. 

“And it be not for Aldus,” Colin said.  “He will not leave Aldus; he be his squire.  But more so, he will not leave _you._ ” 

Saying nothing, Sherlock watched the faces passing him, trying to convince himself he sought Cedric.  He wondered how Colin could be so sure about John.  Sherlock had to admit Colin be not so intolerable; he showed himself to be knowledgeable on an array of subjects, and unusually observant.  He reminded Sherlock a bit of himself.

“How do you know?” Sherlock asked, uncomfortable engaging in such an intimate conversation with a stranger.  John and Sherlock be none of Colin’s concern. 

Colin clasped Sherlock’s arm, turning, so they faced each other.  “Because he be in love with you.” 

Tearing his arm away, Sherlock snorted.  “I think you have been listening to too many fables.”  

“Do not be such an idiot, Sherlock; I know he be.  I see how he can barely keep his eyes off of you.  How he laughs when you say things that be not at all funny.  How he touches you when he thinks no one be looking.  And I know tis the same for you; you be in love with him.”

Sherlock searched Colin’s face for disgust or judgment, seeing neither.  Colin’s face be open and sincere, as if, for some reason, he cared about Sherlock’s predicament.

“I do not say tis true, but if it were, what concern be it of yours?”

Colin’s gaze moved to somewhere behind Sherlock’s shoulder, pensiveness filling his face before he looked at Sherlock again.

“Because my mother has spent much of her life yearning for a man who spurned her.  She did marry again and had another family, but deep in her heart her first husband will always be her true love.  And their separation be all because of a misunderstanding.  Had her first husband had faith in her love for him, they would still be together.  Of course, I would never have been born,” Colin chuckled.  “But the point be, I do not want to see the same thing happen to you.  Have faith in Sir John, Sherlock.  Give him reason to have faith in you.  Do not let misunderstandings come between you.”

Sherlock did not know which annoyed him more, that Colin spoke to him with such familiarity or that he felt he knew so much about him and John.   Sherlock knew he himself had faith in John, but why would John not have faith in him? 

“Hm,” Sherlock grunted.  “Since you seem to know everything about such matters, tell me, when does John come back?” 

“That I do not know, Sherlock, that I do not know.  I think it depends on how badly you upset him, but he _will_ be back.  And tis yours to make sure he does not leave again.”  Colin sniffed at the air.  “Mmmmm, that smells good.  Be you hungry?  I be famished.”

No, Sherlock be not hungry, but he accompanied Colin, pondering the statement ‘tis yours to make sure he does not leave again.’  _What does that mean?  If I did not make John leave_ _how can I make him stay?_

After Colin had eaten, they spent the afternoon visiting merchants, selecting materials.  Sherlock, haggling for lower prices, calling the inflexible sellers ‘thief,’ ‘dolt,’ and ‘the soft underbelly of a sow.’  (“Sherlock, you be not helping.”)  Neither speaking of anything but preparations for the joust.  When they returned to the inn, Sherlock bolted into their room.  A quick glance around gave no indication John had been there.

“Aldus, has Sir John…?”  Twas unlikely, but perhaps Sherlock had missed something.

“No, Sherlock, I have not seen him.”  Aldus rubbed his eyes.  “I slept much of the time you be gone, but I think I would have woken had he been here.” 

His foot slipping on something, Sherlock saw it be parchment that appeared to have been cast under the door.  Unfolding it, he read: 

**Colin, I have contacted a blacksmith on Water Street; Adam be his name.  I told him you be a novice. He be a kind and skilled man, and he will help you with anything you need without requiring payment.  I ask just one thing of you; do the very best you can.  I have faith that you will.  Sir John.**

Sherlock turned the note over to see if anything be written on the other side.  Twas blank.  And turning it over again, he re-read the short message.  No mention of where John be or when he comes back. 

No mention of Sherlock.

“This be for you.”  Sherlock shoved the note at Colin and, spinning on his heel, he escaped the room; he could not breathe.

\-------------------------

“How would I know where Sir John be?”  His back turned to Sherlock, Adam, the blacksmith, did not pause as he stowed his tools; he had finished his work for the day.  “All I know be that Sir John asked me a favour, and I said yes; tis none of my concern what he does with his time.  You be Colin, then?  He told me you would come ‘round.”

“Yes, I be Colin,” Sherlock lied.  Twas a detail that made no difference and he did not want to take time explaining who he be.  Either the blacksmith knew where John be, or he did not, and it appeared he did not.   Or perhaps he just not be saying.

“Well, why did ya not say?”  Adam set tongs down and wiped his hands on the cloth hanging from his waist.  

“How long has it been since he be he here?  In what direction did he go when he left?  Did he say anything about where he has been?  Be he well?”  In quick succession, Sherlock rattled off his questions.

“Ahhh, you be the other fellow – Shirelock, Sherluck; something akin to that.  Sir John told me you might come.  Said if you did, not to answer any questions about where he might be.  But, like I said, I don’t know.  Ask all ya want.”

Sherlock be not deterred by the blacksmith’s reserve.  “What alehouse does he frequent when he be here in the city?  Tailor?  Bootsmith? Chur-”

“Stop.”  Adam folded bulging arms across his chest.  “Sir John be a good friend of mine.  Many a year I’ve known him and I ain’t going to tell anyone anything if he does not want me to.  Now off with you.  It be a long day, and I want to go home.”  Returning to his task, he dismissed Sherlock.

“Perhaps your wife would like to hear about the mistress with whom you spend every Saturday night when you say you be too drunk to find your way home.”

Laughing, Adam said, “My wife knows I ain’t no saint.  You can talk to her all ya like about it.  Hope you can duck fast, though.  She be fond of throwing things.  The harder the thing, the fonder she be.”

“Oh, that will not be necessary,” Sherlock said smoothly, confident he would get what he wanted.  “She will be too busy finding things to throw at _you_ when I tell her about the child.”  He smiled as Adam rounded on him, fists clenched; twas the first amusement Sherlock had had all day.

“Who do you think you be, threatening me?  My private life be no concern of yours.  Get out of here _now_ , before-”

“Before what?” Sherlock asked.  The fool had not a glimmer with whom he be dealing.  “Before I go upstairs and tell your wife you have a child about whom she does not know, and that be why you do not have enough money?   Because you skim your earnings before giving her your purse at the end of the week?” 

“Bit of a prick you be.  No, make that a _big_ prick you be.”

“I be called worse.  Now where be Sir John?”

Backed into the proverbial corner, the blacksmith jerked his head westward.  “He be known to spend time at The Slaughtered Lamb.  Tis down by the water, past the church with a ship atop the steeple.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”  Sherlock swept a mocking bow and headed toward the river.

He heard The Slaughtered Lamb before he saw it.  People spilled out into the street, drinking their cares away after a long day’s work.  Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd, wrinkling his nose at the smells that assaulted it, shoving away unfamiliar hands that put themselves where they had no right to be. 

_Why would John come here?  These be not his kind of people, but maybe that be the reason._ Sherlock remembered the last time he be in search of John, when he had found him in the stable with the harlot.  The thought of seeing hands that had touched him so lovingly, touch someone else, made him ill.

_Have faith in John.’_ That be what Colin had said.  _‘Give him reason to have faith in you.’_ But what did those things mean?  Sherlock knew little of relations between people, let alone lovers.  All he knew be he needed to find John, and he would suffer any discomfort to do so.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Inside the alehouse be more crowded than out.  Men, their faces ruddy from too much alcohol, spilling ale from their mazers as they joined in discordant song.   Women’s faces crumpled in laughter as men who told lewd stories cupped a hand to their breast or pinched their bottom.  Sherlock scanned the room - everywhere be merriment and cheer.  Loud voices.  And happy faces. 

All but the face of one man sitting near the back of the room. 

The man contemplated his ale, emptying the mazer in one long swallow.  The mazer landed on the table with a resounding blow, tipping to the side in the unsteady hand.  Eyes closed, his head nodded as if he might be falling asleep, and then he jerked back up as he lifted his cup to wave it in the air.  He wanted more. 

Sherlock hesitated.  _Be I welcome?  If he wanted me here would he not have asked me to come?_ But as he drew closer, all he could think of be that his world felt right again; it had been so dark all day.

As he approached John, a woman flew past him.

“There you be!” The woman squealed and, throwing her arms around John, in her enthusiasm nearly toppled him.  “I have missed you!”  She pressed her open, painted mouth to the side of his face, attaching herself as if she be a leech.

_Disgusting.  Who be this woman who had ‘missed’ him?_

A red haze clouding his vision, Sherlock marched to the woman and, roughly grabbing her arm, pulled her away. 

“Sir John, here you be.  My apologies for being late, but I finished those errands you requested,” Sherlock said as if John had been waiting for him.  To the woman, he said, “He be not in need of your company tonight.  Find someone else upon whom to inflict your…charms.” 

The woman took one look at Sherlock’s face and backed away. 

“I didn’t mean no harm, honest,” she said, bumping into a ‘gentleman’ who grabbed her around her waist and buried his face into her neck. “Just glad to see an old friend, I be.”  She started to giggle, squirming under the lips nibbling at the base of her throat, already haven forgotten about John.

“Sherrrlock.  Where did thou come from?”  His speech garbled, John squinted up at Sherlock as if he doubted who he saw.  More likely, he could not see straight.

“Seems as if _you_ be having a good time.”  Sherlock wanted to sound stern, but he be so filled with gratitude and relief, and, well, _love,_ to see John, he could not find it in himself to take John to task.  Dropping a hand onto John’s shoulder to hold him steady, he searched the room for the barmaid, signaling her over when he caught her eye. 

“I mished thee, Sherlock.  I love-”

_Not here._ Sherlock leaned down and whispered in John’s ear.  “We will talk later.”

“But I have to,” hiccup, “I have to tell thee-” John’s head fell to the table with a thud.

Sherlock cringed; that had to hurt.  _If_ John had felt it.

Grabbing John’s cloak off the back of his chair, Sherlock bundled it, and gently lifting John’s head, eased him back down to the makeshift pillow.  _Where be that barmaid. She be slower than-_

“Whaddya want?”  The barmaid be worn and pale. Not from age, but from the weariness of standing on her feet all day.

“Have you an available room?  As you can see, my friend be unfit to walk anywhere.”  Sherlock produced a coin, showing her twas not a frivolous request.

She did not bother looking at John; twas almost a nightly occurrence, men, and woman, too drunk to find their way home.  At least, this one had money for a room.  Usually, she found them outside in the morning, propped against the wall.  Steeped not only in the last dregs of their ale from the night before but in their own urine.

The barmaid took the coin and dropped it into her pocket. “There be a room upstairs at the end of the hall on the left.  If you fall out the window, you’ve gone too far.”   She failed to smile at her humour, no doubt having used the jest countless times before. 

_What a boring life she must lead._

“Thank you.”  Sherlock shook John’s shoulder.  “Sir John, let us get you to bed.  Sir John?”

“Hmmm?”

“Tis time for you to go to bed.”

“Sherlock?”  John lifted his head enough to look at the man summoning him.

“Yes, I be Sherlock.”  _How has he already forgotten?_   “Come on, John.  Get up.”  Bending over and hooking an arm under John’s, Sherlock tugged at dead weight. “I need your help.” 

John blinked slowly, clearing his vision.  “ _Tis_ Sherlock.  _My_ Sherlock.”

“Yes, your Sherlock.  Come on, up you go.  That be good.”  With John on his feet, Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist, steering him to the stairs.  Waiting at each step whilst John fumbled to find the next one.  Catching him when he lost his balance, pitching forward.

They reached the room and, with Sherlock’s help, John stumbled to the bed, slumping onto it.  Lifting John’s legs, Sherlock removed his boots and covered him with the blanket. 

Though it pained him to see John in such a state, Sherlock felt surprising tenderness at taking care of him.  The only other time he had experienced such an emotion be when he had seen to John after the stabbing, but that time his tenderness had been overridden by fear.  _Nothing would make me happier than to always be around to take care of thee, John._

“Sherlock.”  His eyes fluttering closed, the name left John in a contented sigh.  

Sherlock sat beside him on the bed.  Reaching out to brush his fingers through John’s hair, he marveled at how soft it felt.  How soft it made _him_ feel.  _How can I love someone so much? I have lived a lifetime without even a hint of such an emotion inside of me, and now?  Since I met him tis all I feel._

“Sherlock,” John sighed again.  “Thou will not leave me, will thee.  Thou be mine.”

“Yes, John, I be thine.  I will stay the night with thee.”  Sherlock lied down in the sliver of space on the edge of the bed, facing John. 

“No, not tonight,” John mumbled, barely awake enough to speak.  “Ever, Sherlock.  Ev...”

The realisation hit Sherlock that this be why John had acted so strangely today; he feared Sherlock would leave him.  Sherlock groaned at his stupidity.  And twas why John had kept saying _if_   Sherlock lived - dying be a way of leaving. 

“No, John.  Sir John.  I will not leave thee.  Ever.”

“Good,” John said, the soft snore that followed telling Sherlock that a belly full of ale and the lure of sleep had finally claimed him.

Sherlock watched him in the dark.  Stroked his hair, whispering, “I love thee, John; I love thee very much.”  Telling John that he be an idiot if he thought Sherlock did not.  Telling him he would not leave John’s side the rest of his days if that be what John wanted. 

When Sherlock felt assured John would sleep through the night, he quietly rose and tucked the blanket securely around John.  He did not want to leave; after all, had he not told John he would not?  But, though appearances did not matter to Sherlock, they did to John, and he did not want to give anyone cause for idle talk.

Walking downstairs and into the night, Sherlock felt a peace that he had never before been able to call his own. 

He smiled.


	20. Chapter 20

_Christ.  There_ _must be a dozen horses in my head, the way it pounds so._

John groaned.  He did not want to move, to do so would only make the hooves pound harder, but his bladder told him that if he did not rise and relieve it, he would embarrass himself.  Light stabbed at his eyes when he opened them, and he quickly shut them.  _What the hell be wrong with me?_

He groaned again as he pieced together the symptoms – too much drink.  Twas not the first time.  It had been several years since he had felt this way, but how well he remembered the consequences; in the dark days following the deaths of his wife and child, there had been many a morn he had awoken in such a state.  Not less than a few times with a strange woman at his side. 

His bladder heavy, he could deny its need no longer.  Gingerly, he pushed himself to a sitting position, every inch upward creating new agony as his head screamed in protest.  _Do not ever, **ever** , drink again, you clod._

Bleary-eyed, he scanned the room for the bucket; he could not remember where it be and he did not think he had it in him to waste even a few steps going in the wrong direction.  Seeing it, with unsteady steps he tottered over. 

_Tis not the room we stayed in the last few days.  How did I come to be here?  And why be I here alone? Where be Sherlock?  And Aldus and Colin?_

He could not remember coming to this room.  Hell, he could not remember drinking or anything else from the night before.  Be there anything else he could not remember?

Looking at the bed, he saw no signs anyone had joined him.  _Thank God._   Since coupling with Sherlock he had had no desire to lie with any other.  Sober, or drunk, it appeared.  But why had he drunk so much that he be inebriated?  The only times he be known to overindulge be when he be particularly troubled.  Twas called ‘drowning one’s sorrows’ for a reason, he thought, dryly. 

He and Sherlock had argued.  Well, _he_ had argued, anyway, and Sherlock had been oblivious to his fears, pressing on with the reasons he should joust.  How someone could be so brilliant yet have the so little insight to human emotion, John did not know.  _I need to be patient; he be not raised as I be in circumstances that fostered understanding.  As a servant, he be raised to have little more use than a farm animal._

_Sherlock.  Dear fucking Christ I miss thee.  So, so much._

Just a few weeks ago John had not even known Sherlock had existed and, after just one day without him, John felt empty.  No, more than empty. Twas as if something gnawed at his insides, eating away at him.  He could not say he lamented never having been in love before if this be how it felt. 

His bladder empty, John shuffled back to the bed and eased himself down; he would lie a bit longer.  Until the room stopped spinning.   Putting his arm over his eyes to block the light, he felt worse than he had in as long as he could remember.  And twas not a physical pain.

What be he to do about Sherlock?  Be it reasonable to stay away?  He knew why he did - to save himself later heartache.  But would it not be better for him to be with Sherlock, to guide him?  Not that John had not been doing what he could to help; he had sent money and had directed Colin to a blacksmith.  With Adam’s help, Colin would take care of the armour.  And though Aldus had never jousted, as closely as he had worked with John, he knew as much strategy as did John; he would teach Sherlock well. 

_Tis no need for me._  

The realisation that Sherlock be just as well off without him did nothing to improve John's spirits; he wanted to be needed.  He _needed_ to be needed.  By Sherlock.

John rolled into his pillow and clutched it to him, imagining he smelled Sherlock’s scent, and it made him ache for Sherlock that much more.  It reminded him of his dream that Sherlock had been with him.  That Sherlock had lain beside him and told him over and over that he loved him.  Twas not unusual; most nights he dreamed of Sherlock, but this one be clearer than most.  Twas as real as if it had happened.

_What a fool I be_.  _I should spend every moment with Sherlock I be able.  I may not have much time with him, but every moment with him be precious, and I will regret it if I do not._

_\---------------------------------_

“Where be Sherlock?” John asked, seeing only Colin and Aldus.

Making the long walk from The Slaughtered Lamb to the room they had rented when they had arrived in London, John had stopped for a leisurely bath, soaking tired muscles and washing away the stench.  Clearing his mind.  He could not go to Sherlock smelling so foul, as if he had steeped himself in ale, though, in truth, he had.  The bath had done him good; not only did he smell better, he felt human again. 

“Be he not with you?”  Colin answered from where he sat at a small table, a pair of pincers poised in his hands.

Frowning, John said, “If he be with me I would not ask.” 

“I do not know, then.  He be out late last night and left early this morn.  I be glad you be here; he has been distracted.  I think it unwise that he will joust, but he be determined, and he will be no good at all if he cannot concentrate.”

John snorted.  Determined.  _That_ sounded like the Sherlock he knew, but distracted?  “What troubles him?” 

The look Colin gave John clearly be ‘Why do you think?’

“I have no idea; I have not seen him.”

“Exactly.”

“Sherlock has been worried that I have been gone?” 

“Of course, he be.”  Glancing around and seeing that whilst Aldus appeared not to be paying attention to their conversation, Colin moved closer to John, lowering his voice.  “He cares about you; he has been lost without you.”

_Sherlock_ _lost without me.  Who would have thought._ Discomfited by the blush that rose to his cheeks, John looked away.

“Sir John?  Since he be not here, may I speak to you about a matter that burdens me?”

Hearing the hesitancy in Colin’s voice, John turned back to him.  “What bothers you, Colin?”

“I—I have something I have meant to tell Sherlock and every time I try, I be interrupted.”  Colin picked at the dirt under his fingernails, flicking it onto the floor.  “Tis difficult for me to tell him because tis of a personal nature, but I think if you told him it would be better.  I be not so sure he will take it well from me.” 

“But you two seem to get along well.”

“Yes, we do, which is why I-”

“Colin, Sir John be not-” Sherlock charged through the door, not seeing John until Colin tilted his head, Sherlock’s gaze following.  

_John_

Sherlock’s eyes burned, but with what John could not tell.  Did Sherlock not want him there?  Because he had stormed out yesterday, did Sherlock no longer trust him? 

John stared into startlingly blue eyes.  Happy, angry, worried?  Indifferent?   Which it be, John did not know.  All he knew be they were the loveliest eyes he had ever seen, and he thought he need not look at anything else ever again.  Want for nothing else.

_My love, how did I think I could spend even one minute away from thee?_

_Sir John._

With those two words, John knew that he be forgiven.  And he knew what he had seen in Sherlock’s eyes.  Relief. 

_There be nothing for which thou need be forgiven._ As entranced with John as John be with him, Sherlock had yet to move from the doorway. 

“Aldus, we be leaving.”  Colin’s words clipped, he hurried over to Aldus.  Pulling out a clean blouse for Aldus, he started dressing him.  “Here, put on something fresh.  I think you be well enough now to go to the blacksmith with me.  You can sit and watch whilst I work.”

“Ow, why be you in such a rush,” Aldus whinged when Colin yanked too hard, catching Aldus’s fingers in a sleeve.  He slapped at Colin’s hands. “Off!  I can do it myself; I be not helpless.”

Colin ignored Aldus’s complaints.  Finished with the blouse, Colin grabbed the boots sitting by the bed and started putting them on Aldus’s feet.

“Colin, I swear.” Aldus grabbed the boots, muttering as Colin urged him to move faster, “I can put on my own shoes.  Leave me be.”

Aware of little but the man who stood before him, John’s lips lifted in a smile. 

_I missed thee so much._

_No more than I missed thee._

They stood, staring at each other as if under a spell.  Impatient to be alone.  Impatient to say things out loud that were for no other to hear.  To touch each other in places that were for no other to see. 

John licked his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out, pink and wet.  Pressing his mouth closed before starting over.  Wondering what in God’s Heaven Sherlock be doing.  No, he could not be counting the hairs on his head.  Could he?   

_Sherlock, truly?  Has thou nothing better about which to think?_

_But John, everything about thee be of great interest to me._

_I give up.  Tis no use trying not to love such a ridiculous man._

Sherlock’s smile dropped from his face, hurt. _Thou tried?_

_Christ, no.  Never would I have had a fighting chance._

Finally, _finally,_ Colin shoved Aldus out the door.  “We will be gone all afternoon.”  

John mouthed ‘Thank you.’  How could Colin have understood that he and Sherlock needed time alone?  It could not be that Colin knew about them, could it?

‘You be welcome,’ Colin’s nod said, a twinkle in his eye.  And John knew that Colin knew.  And not only did he know about the love John and Sherlock shared, but he did not condemn it.

“Did you-” John started to ask Sherlock, pointing at the door that had closed behind Colin.

“No.  He came up with it on his own.”

Their eyes still locked, Sherlock took a deliberate step forward, the gaze with which he met John’s so intense, John felt incapable of moving.  

“But, do you not-”  

“No, I do not,” Sherlock said, cutting him off.  “We need not worry about him.  He be…pleased.”  For the length of time it took him to blink, Sherlock’s mind be somewhere else.  But when that blink be done, he be John’s once again. 

_Mine_

_Yours_

Another two steps brought Sherlock closer, his feet meeting the floor heel to toes.  Heel to toes.  Deliberate.  Beguiling.  Graceful.  His eyes fixed on John.  And John, breathless, feared he would never breathe again, let alone move.  

And when there were no steps left between them, John tipped his head back, unwillingly to break their gaze. Their bodies yet to touch, John felt the heat of him.  Felt the raw heat of a long, lean body, muscles tensed.  Of a heart about to beat out of its chest.  John’s heart feeling as if it would do the same.

“But-” 

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

His eyes drifting closed, John’s mouth parted, and he melted into lips as soft as the softest down pillow.  Sherlock’s tongue, sure and enticing, probed his mouth, teasing, prodding. Telling John he wanted him and that nothing would get in the way of what he wanted. Gentle hands cupped his face, their long, nimble fingers cradling his head with a lover’s reverence.

_Dear fucking Christ, I will not survive this man._

John sought Sherlock’s slim hips, roughly pulling them to him.  Wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s waist, bringing him closer until he felt the heady proof of Sherlock’s desire, thick with want.

“John.” Sherlock murmured his prayer against John’s lips. 

Sherlock rolled his hips into John.  Nipping along his jaw, Sherlock paused to explore the cleft of John’s chin, and sucked a trail of open-mouthed kisses down John’s neck, arched in feverish delectation. 

Sherlock’s buttocks filling his hands, John kneaded the firm, rounded flesh, eliciting a groan from deep within Sherlock’s chest.  A groan warm against John’s skin, stoking the flame that already burned bright and hot.

“John.  Sir John.”   

Desperation coloured Sherlock’s plea, and John, unable to restrain himself any longer, thrust his hand into Sherlock’s breeches, taking hold of his manhood. 

“Sorry.  So, sorry.”  A voice came from by the door.

_What the fuck?  Colin?_ John’s eyes flew open, and his hands made a hasty retreat to his sides, but not before pushing Sherlock away. 

Wishing he could sink into a hole where no one could see him.

Wishing, when he looked at Sherlock’s face, that he could throttle him; the twat had the nerve to look amused.  Twas as if it be an everyday occurrence to be caught in a man’s embrace.  No, more damning than an embrace.

Colin, his hand on the open door, grimaced.  “I be _so, so_ sorry.”  Averting his eyes, he dashed to the table and picked up his pincers.  “I forgot these.  I will not be back again before the sun goes down.  I promise,” he said, escaping the room. 

His amorous mood shattered when Colin had interrupted them, John pushed Sherlock's hand away when he reached out to him. 

“Tis no minor breach.  What if he tells someone?”  John paced the room.  If the subject be broached, how did they explain away what Colin saw?  Sitting down on the closest bed, he looked up at Sherlock; all the joy that had been on John’s face moments before, gone.

“He will not tell anyone.”  Sitting beside him, Sherlock folded John’s hands in to his own, weaving their fingers together.

“And just how does thou know?”  He wanted to believe Sherlock, truly, he did. But what did they actually know about Colin?  Looking down at their clasped hands, John marveled at how, with Sherlock by his side, he felt complete. Twas as if having him near made everything that could be wrong, right; but he knew twas only his sentiment talking.

“I do not.  But yesterday, unbidden, he counseled me. He told me that we should not let misunderstandings separate us.  I do not think he would say such a thing if his motive be to humiliate us.  Or worse, see us arrested.”

“That does make sense.  But still, tis very strange for him to be so, well, so enthusiastic about us.”  John shook his head, bewildered by Colin’s disposition regarding him and Sherlock.

“Something else he said, John.  He said tis mine not to give thee cause to leave.   Did I-?”  And now, Sherlock did look lost, though John be no farther away than right next to him, their thighs leaning heavily into each other. 

As much as John loved Sherlock when he be full of fire and certainty, if possible, he loved him even more when he did not have the answers.  When Sherlock be unsure of himself, wanting to ask questions he could not articulate.  Twas a vulnerability about him then, softening him, tearing down walls built over a lifetime.  Twas a contrast that made John want to fold him into his arms and tell him everything would be all right. 

“No, love,” John said, reaching for Sherlock, holding him close.  “Thou did nothing wrong.”

“And I was—I was…”  Sherlock pulled away at John, distressed that he could not get the words out.

“Thou be what, love?”  

“Thou be not at The Slaughtered Lamb this morning when I went back for thee, and I be—I thought Cedric had found thee.”   

“Ahh, thou _did_ go to The Slaughtered Lamb last night.”

Sherlock nodded.

“That explains why I thought I smelled thy scent when I awoke; I thought I had imagined it.  A proper arse I be, Sherlock; please forgive me. I should not have-”

“I made thou think thou I do not care for thee.”  

“Twas not that, love.  Well, yes, I guess it was, but I had not made myself clear; I had thought thou would know how I felt.  If I did not tell thee how could thou know?  I love thee, more than I can put into words, but I will not try to stop thee from doing what thou thinks thou should do.  And I will not run away again.  Even if it means watching thee...”  He could not force the word ‘die’ from his lips.   

The weight of his emotions making it difficult to face Sherlock, John bowed his head, reflecting on Sherlock’s hand as he stroked his thumb over it.  _Such beautiful hands.  Strong, yet capable of a gentleness that makes me tremble._

“I be not going anywhere.”

John looked up, searching Sherlock’s face, fearing he had misheard him.

“I be not going anywhere,” Sherlock repeated.  “Not to joust, not to live with my family.  How can thou think that John?”  Lifting John’s hand, he kissed each finger, savouring each of them one by one.  “Sir John,” he said softly, meeting John’s eyes.  “Does thou think I could ever part from thee?”

“But-”

“But, but, but.  Why has thou so many doubts, John?  Thou does not remember last night, does thou?”

Chagrined, John said, “No, I do not.”

“Thou asked me if I would stay with thee forever, and I told thee that I would always stay by thy side if that be what thou wishes.  Be it what thou wishes, John?  Even if it means thou will have no children?  Of course, thou be not in thy right mind when thou said it…”

John knew they had talked about going to Germany, but somehow what Sherlock now asked seemed different.  When they had agreed to leave England, it had been as if they had been running away from a world that would not accept them as they were.  But this?  This felt as if it be something they be running toward. An agreement made by reason, not passion.  Not that there would not be passion, John thought, his mouth curling into a smile.

“There be nothing more I need than thee.”  John said it simply, an absolute truth needing no explanation. 

“Good.”  Sherlock stood up.  “We have work to do.  The joust be in two days and-”  

“ _Sit_.”  John tugged on the hand he had not yet released, forcing Sherlock back down.  “Thou said thou would not compete.” 

“I have been thinking. The purpose of competing be to lure Cedric, and to do that tis not necessary I joust; I only need to arrive at the competition.  Of course, I do not have to do that either.  But, I worry John, that you will never be safe if he still be out there.”

“As much as I do not like the idea of thou being anywhere near the competition, I like even less the idea of Cedric being free.  But since thou does not plan to compete, then I should be the one to go.  My shoulder be better and I can wear the armour.”

“Ha,” Sherlock grunted.  “Tis not likely, not unless thou grows a head taller, and quickly; Colin has been quite efficient and be well on his way to finishing the suit.” 

With that matter settled, a larger question still loomed before them.  John be loath to ask, but they had to meet their challenges head on if they hoped to plan a future.  John set the question down between them, uncertain it be a divide they could cross.

“What about thy family, Sherlock?” 

“What about them?”  Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. 

“We both be men, lovers in a world that says what we do be wrong.  Thou said thou would not want to live with them, but what if thou changes thy mind?  What if thou meets them and wants to spend more time with them, and to do that you choose to live with them?”  What John could not bring himself to say be that if Sherlock lived with them, it would be a death knell; there could be no ‘us.’

“Whatever we do, we do together as it pleases _us._ Too much of my life I have been forced to do what others wanted, and I refuse to do so any longer _._ ” 

Not wanting to argue, John nodded in agreement.   As reasonable as Sherlock’s declaration sounded, once the time came for him to make a choice, twould not be so simple.  In many ways, Sherlock had lived a sheltered life, and twould be a hard lesson when he found out things did not necessarily work the way he wanted them to; the world be an unforgiving place. 

Weary of speaking about such serious matters, John’s thoughts drifted to what had occupied them when Colin had so inconveniently interrupted them.  “Thou said we should do what pleases _us,_ ” John said mischievously.  With a burst of vigor, he swiveled around, leaving the bed from the far side.  Leaning down, he put his hands on the edge of it.  “Get thy pretty arse over here and help me; we need to move this so no one comes in.” 

A knowing smile on Sherlock’s face, he joined John in pushing it up against the door.  “I like the way thou thinks, Sir John.” 

“I did not attain knighthood by my looks, alone.  Now here,” he said, turning from where he had fetched a bundle of clothes, “put these on.”

“But these be what I wore when I went to Cedric’s...ahhh.”  Understanding shined in Sherlock’s eyes.  “Thou did look particularly, shall I say, hungry, when I wore them.”

“And I still be hungry.  Oh, so very hungry.”

 

 

John never did get the chance that afternoon to remove the clothes he had handed to Sherlock, but twas no disappointment. For by the time Sherlock tossed aside what he already wore, they be but a distant memory.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Tournament day had arrived and, as John and Sherlock stood in their pavilion, for a moment John forgot where they be. Forgot for a moment that, save him and Sherlock, there be anyone else be in the world.  He would not know how to explain it had someone asked.  But the sight of Sherlock, dressed as he be in the armour, John could think of nothing but how alluring Sherlock be.  Never before had John understood the carnal appeal of a knight, but knowing what hid underneath the suit it came to him with complete clarity. 

The last two days had been perfect, but they had sped by quickly.  Too quickly.  With Colin and Aldus at the blacksmith’s the greater part of the daylight hours, John and Sherlock had had the luxury of spending those two days, for the most part, alone. Together.  Two days tangled around each other’s bodies, slick with sweat.  Muffling the urgency of their passion.  Murmuring words of love and commitment that neither had ever before heard.  Or had ever wanted to say.

For two days they had wandered the streets of London in quiet amity, sharing secret smiles, stolen touches.  Talking of everything and giggling at nothing at all.  In the last two days, John had learned that nothing be better than being in love.  Nothing except for the man with whom he be in love, Sherlock, a quick-witted and bewitching friend and lover.  Their days together had given John a taste of what life would be for them, and he could not wait for every day, every moment of that life; he would never be bored.

Only one thing had marred the two days, a brief, heated, argument when Sherlock had protested John’s insistence he should accompany Sherlock to the competition. As they had lied in bed, their clash had threatened to overshadow the glow they basked in after a vigorous round of lovemaking.

“No, John. I will not permit it; tis too dangerous.” Sherlock had said as if it had not occurred to him that he should include John in the decision.

“ _Thou_ will not permit it?  Thou who goes off half-cocked-”

“‘Half-cocked.’  I do nothing of the kind," Sherlock had snorted when he had recovered from the slight.  "I have created the per-” Seeing John’s unfavorable reaction he had bit himself off.  “We.  I mean _we_ have laid out a perfect plan, and tis no use putting us both in trouble’s way.  Should thou attend the joust and it be revealed I be not thee, then thou will have no fault; I shall say I took thy place of my own accord.”

“ _No_ one will be in trouble, Sherlock.  And does thou know why?  Because I _will_ be there.  We went over this.”

Sherlock’s had opened his mouth to speak, and changing his mind, had closed it.

“Let us imagine for a moment,” John had said, “that at the joust thou will somehow manage the one exceedingly small task of keeping thy mouth shut, which I dare say shall be difficult for thee. How will thou know where to go and what to do?  Who will watch for Cedric from down on the field whilst Aldus and Colin search the crowds? Who will hobble Jocelyn at the precise moment needed, so thou be able to excuse yourself from thy match?  Hmmm?  Thou cannot do that fully suited.”

“But, John-”

“No buts, my love.  Tis not practical for thee to go by thyself; my experience and eye be vital.  Whether or not thou thinks I will be of use, thou needs me.”

“I always need thee.”

“Thou knows what I mean.”

“Yes, John, I do know.  But apparently thou does not know what _I_ mean.”

“Yes, I do.”  _How can this man be so thick-headed?_  “Thou means that thou be sufficient all by thyself, that thou be shrewder than anyone thou knows.  God knows tis true, but shrewd also means knowing when tis time to let someone help thee.  Thou may not want to admit it, Sherlock, but thou needs help at the tournament.  I be amenable to Aldus or Colin aiding thee, and I can assist the other in looking for Cedric. Would that appease thee?”

Sherlock had pressed his lips together as if a child who thought he would win the argument through sheer stubbornness.

“So now thou will not talk to me. Very mature, Sherlock.  Thou can refuse to speak to me until I be cold in my grave, and it will not change my mind; I will go with thee.”

“Why, John?”

“To protect thee, of course.”  Be that not plain to see?

“See, thou _does_ understand.”  Sherlock had beamed as if he had just scored the winning point.

What had John missed?  Perplexed, he had mumbled to himself, _I said I would go to protect him, which he said he understood.  Where be the flaw if he agreed with me?_

“We agree that I should go, yet thou looks as if thou has won a prize.  What lurks in the depths of that massive brain of thine?”

“ _Thou_ wants to go to protect me,” Sherlock had said slowly, each word distinct.

“Yes.  And?”

“Tis clear thou understands why I do not want thee to go.”

“Pretend I be stupid.”  John had sighed, weary of the game.  Knowing twas not a game to Sherlock, but that Sherlock assumed John understood what he said. 

“I do not want thou there to protect _thee._ Not only would thou be vulnerable to arrest, but thou would also be vulnerable to Cedric.”  Folding his arms, Sherlock had flopped onto his back.  The matter be settled.

“Circles, Sherlock.  We go in circles.” 

John licked his lips; he would have to try another tactic. 

“Sherlock?  What be most important to thee?”

“Thee, of course.”

Surprised at the response, and that it be so quick that he had barely had time to finish the question, John’s mouth had rucked up into a small “oh,” his cheeks flushing with pleasure. 

“Thank you, love.  Thou knows tis the same for me, but do not try to distract me.  After me, what be most valuable to thee?”

“I do not know what thou means.”

“Tis no time to be modest.”

“Thou can be annoyingly determined.  If thou must know, my mind.”

“Thou _does_ make me work for this, Sherlock.  What about thy mind does thou take pride in?  Humour me.”

“Logic, reason.  Obviously.”

_Lord, finally._

“There be no one, _no one,_ as clever as thee,” John had said, rolling onto his side so he could more clearly see Sherlock.  “But ‘reason’ also means knowing when tis sensible to let someone help.  Let me help, Sherlock.  Please, love, for me?”

John had seen in Sherlock’s eyes that he had understood he had been skillfully manipulated.  But Sherlock's need to be right, would he prevail? 

“I will agree on one condition.” 

“And that be?”  John had asked, Sherlock’s expression telling him the price be a steep one.   But whatever price Sherlock required, twould be worth it to see him safe.

“I want thee to kiss me.”

Shifting closer to Sherlock, John’s attempt to kiss him on the mouth had been spurned.

“Tut tut, not there.”  Inch by inch, Sherlock had lowered the blanket until he revealed an alabaster hip.  “Here,” he had said smugly.

“Well, I do not know.  Tis quite the ransom thou requires…”

As John had pretended to consider the request, Sherlock had started drawing the blanket back up, its ascent blocked by the hand that had come from seemingly out of nowhere, pulling it back down.  A warm, soft mouth caressed his smooth flesh where it again lay bare, and he moaned.

“I give,” John had murmured against his skin.

“Thou does.  Oh, how thou does,” Sherlock had sighed, sinking into the bed.

And at the end of each day, they had joined Colin and Aldus in their room to conceive the plan to catch Cedric.  As important as Cedric be, more importantly, they needed to move Sherlock into the jousting arena and back out again without revealing his true person.  Not one of the four men in the room felt the need to speak aloud why it be so essential. 

Reluctantly, John brought himself back to the present.  The tournament.  Twould not be useful to allow himself lose his focus for too long.  But there be one more thing.

_I love thee,_ he said.

John could not see his love’s eyes, the narrow openings of the great helm Sherlock wore obscured them, but Sherlock canted his head toward John, silently acknowledging the declaration.  As uncertain as it be to convince anyone that Sherlock be Sir John, were he to talk, to use that voice so rich and velvety, twould erase all doubt he be not the knight.

If John had not already been relieved that Sherlock would not compete, he had been doubly so when he had learned twas Sir Norman the Merciful of Leicester against whom Sherlock was to have competed.  

Merciful.  Sir Norman’s be a title that, in John’s experience, belied the true character of the man.  Sir Norman be an errant and unchivalrous competitor, one known to cross brazenly the bounds of a fair fight. For years, rumours had spread of his corrupt means, not the least being that he fought with solid lances instead of the required hollow ones.  His record of victories, losing only to John, showed the rumours could well be true, but never had Sir Norman’s furtive tactics been exposed.     

_Where be Cedric?!_   John made a sweeping glance, having yet to spot him; nor had he heard the signal telling him Aldus and Colin had.  The sea of people all started to look alike to John: fat, thin, long, hairy.  Young and old.  With every face that be not Cedric’s, John’s insides coiled tighter; Cedric _had_ to be there. 

Perhaps Sherlock be wrong, and Cedric had left London. Twas not groundless to consider that, to save his skin, Cedric had left behind everything and everyone he knew.  But John could not help but think Sherlock be right.  That as distasteful the thought of Cedric being in love with him be, be it true, Cedric would want to see John.  And where better to hide than in plain sight?

“He be here.”

John jumped at Sherlock’s voice in his ear.  Idiot, risking giving himself away.  But his voice be so quiet, twas not possible for anyone else to hear.

“Where?”  John hissed back, his gaze flicking across the crowd.  Where did Sherlock see him?  Be it the ‘woman’ with the veil covering her head?  The man with his back turned?

“I do not know,” Sherlock whispered.  “But he be here. I feel him.”

“We have not much time left.” 

“Be patient _._ ” 

“You be a fine one to tell me to be patient.”  His nerves frayed, John said it sharper than he intended.  Twas too much at stake.  If they did not find Cedric here and now, twould be nearly impossible once the joust be over.  And then what?  Day after day turning into week after week as he and Sherlock searched for him? Or looking around every corner, waiting to see if Cedric had found _them_? 

They had to find him _now_ ; it had to be today.

John turned to Sherlock, aching to see his face.  To see the assurance he knew lied there. _When did this happen to me?_ John thought. _When did I become dependent on another?_   _Start relying on someone else’s strength to keep me strong?_ He did not have to dig deep into himself to find the answer.  _The day I met Sherlock._  

“Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge!  Sir Norman the Merciful of Leicester!”

His name called as the next to compete, John leapt into action; twas time to hobble his horse.  They could not risk Sherlock being obligated to joust.  Thrusting his hand into the pocket deep in the folds of his cloak, John withdrew a slim blade, and giving Jocelyn’s rump an apologetic stroke, he whispered to her, “Forgive me, Jocelyn.”  As he crouched down at her hoof, she stretched her neck to look back at him with mild curiosity, and before she had time to draw her leg away, he dug the knife into the hide above her coronet, scoring a long gash. She squealed in protest, jerking her leg up, but she did not kick him.  Not giving himself time to regret his betrayal of the loyal and hard-working horse, he unwound the cloth he had hidden in his other pocket and wrapped it around her wound.

“Sir John, your match be next; ready yourself.”  The official who had walked up to them directed his words to Sherlock.

As if on cue, Jocelyn broke the air with a pitiful scream.  John sprang up from his crouch, grabbing her reins to steady her.

“My good sir, forgive us,” John said, the anguish in his voice real.  “The horse lamed herself on the way here and be of no use.  Sir John will be unable to compete.” 

The official peered closely at John, but John bowed his head, hunching deeper into the shadowy darkness of his hood.

“Sir John,” the official said, looking out the side of his eye at John again before turning back to Sherlock.  “If you default this match you will have no other opportunity; this be the end of the tournament for you.  Have you not another horse?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Sir John gives his apologies.  His voice has left him; too much celebration last night, if you know what I mean,” John added with a forced laugh.  “Sir John understands the implications and is fully prepared to relinquish his position.”

Above the din of the festivities came the faint strains of a trumpet.  Instantly alert, John tilted his head.  Twas a faint sound, nearly drowned by that of the horde of people, but twas that of a trumpet.  And not the one used by the tournament herald. Three high-pitched reports no more than four seconds each, followed by two shorter bursts - the signal that Aldus and Colin had found Cedric.

Twas time for battle.

“Sir John.  I will return momentarily to help you return the horse to the stall.”

_Stay here.  Do NOT do anything stupid,_ John warned, knowing if he could see Sherlock he would surely see his eyes roll. 

Running out of the pavilion to where he had heard the signal, his view hampered by his hood, John fought the urge to throw it back.  But he could not take the risk; to reveal himself would put Sherlock in peril.  Hearing it again, John spun in its direction. Not more than a few dozen yards away be Colin and Aldus, and a jolt of hatred pierced through him as he glimpsed Cedric, his face twisted in anger.  By the time John reached them, Colin and Aldus had him in their grasp. 

Throwing his head back, Cedric sucked in his cheeks and, snapping his head forward, propelled a shower of spittle at Aldus.  His attention elsewhere, Cedric did not see John’s approach.  Did not see John draw his arm back, hand clutched into a fist as it sped toward Cedric.  Did not have time to register surprise as the blow cut under his chin, throwing his head back as if he be a rag doll.  The pounding blow to his temple that followed was too much for him and Cedric crumpled, his fall slowed only by the hold Aldus and Colin still had on him.  Colin pushed Cedric flat on the ground, kneeing him in his back whilst Aldus tied his hands together.

_Christ that felt good!_ Sucking in much needed air, John’s chest heaved.  And shaking the pain out of his hand, he strained to see Sherlock.  To let him know that they had Cedric.  But his elation shifted to horror at what he saw.

For what he saw be two men who appeared to be constables taking ahold of Sherlock’s arms. 

But more horrifying be the fact that Sherlock’s great helm, and the cervelliere that had been underneath it, were nowhere to be seen, leaving his head uncovered.  Making it apparent he not be Sir John.

“Sherlock!”  he bellowed, sure his cry would be lost before it reached him.

“Take him to the sheriff,” John yelled to Aldus, and he rammed his body through the dense crowd toward Sherlock.  Courtesy be damned.  Stepping on toes, knocking over children, yelling at the commoner who pushed back at him, he had only one purpose: reach Sherlock.

It must have been only minutes, but it felt a lifetime before John caught up with Sherlock and his captors as they marched toward the field’s outskirts.  Racing to the front of the small procession, John stumbled to a stop; he needed to slow, if not entirely block, them.  

It did not work.  The group kept moving forward and would have knocked John down, walking over him, had he not dodged out of the way.  The men at Sherlock’s sides, unmindful of his difficulties walking in the inflexible armour, dragged him along, mocking his ungainliness.  Gloating over their good fortune to “take an arrogant knight down a notch or two.” 

In his most commanding tone, John said, “I demand to know why you arrest this man.”

“Tis none of your concern,” one of the constables said calmly as if he did not grip John’s heart in his hand.

“As a servant of the Crown, I charge you to tell me.” 

The constables’ steps faltered.

“And you be?”

“My name be John, Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge, serving at the leisure of the King.  He will not take kindly to hearing you have arrested this man.  He be my squire, and I can vouch for the fact he has committed no crime.”   Perhaps they would yield to his authority and release Sherlock.  Twas not likely, but he had to try.

The constables came to a full stop and, leaning their heads toward each other behind Sherlock’s back, spoke in voices so low John could not hear what they said.

John’s stomach lurched as if he might be ill.  They had to have arrested Sherlock for falsely acting as a knight.   _Dammit._ He should have listened to his own counsel no matter how persuasive Sherlock had been.

Racked with guilt, John could barely bring himself to look at Sherlock.  When he did raise his eyes, John be certain he _would_ be ill, for, in Sherlock’s innocence of how the world worked, he seemed unaware of the situation’s severity. As be typical of Sherlock, he showed no fear.  His head held high, had one not known otherwise, they would have thought he be out for a Sunday walk. 

_They have arrested thee for acting as a knight, have they not.  I should never have let thee take my place; I know better. Tis my fault, Sherlock._

_Tis not it._  Sherlock’s hair hung limply around his face, sweat-soaked from wearing the helm.

_Dear God.  For murder?_

John’s mind whirled.  As serious as an offence as be their deceit, murder be much more so.  All that kept John from going mad be that he well knew Sherlock did not murder Eduard.  To effect his release would be tedious and time consuming, but he _would_ be released.

_I will not let thee go to gaol; thou be blameless.  I will tell them twas me; Let me take thy place,_ John implored.  

Sherlock’s eyes softened at the sacrifice John offered.  _No, John, tis not why._  

“What be happening?  Why do they arrest him?”  Colin panted, running to a stop beside John.  His gaze volleying between the two men, his brow creased in confusion. 

_Sherlock?_  

Only half-aware that Colin had joined them, John’s left hand clenched and stretched.  And clenched again.  Why had they arrested Sherlock?  Whatever it be, it could not be as grim as murder.  He breathed easier at the thought; everything would be fine, just fine.  Twas all a misunderstanding.  John could think of nothing else for which Sherlock could have been charged.

_Why be thou arrested, then?_

No one but John would have noticed that at that moment, Sherlock’s confidence wavered.  His eyes darkened and, almost imperceptibly, his face slackened, easing his angular features.  The change be just enough that John knew that for whatever reason Sherlock be arrested, twas egregious and likely true. 

And that Sherlock be afraid.

It unnerved John to see Sherlock show fear; the one emotion the proud man did not deserve, and should never, _never_ have to experience.  The part of John that moments ago had relaxed went tense, and his fingernails cut into the meat of his palm whilst he waited for the answer.  Be there something in Sherlock’s past about which John did not know?  _What had he done?_

_Sweetheart?  Tell me, please?  Whatever it be, we will clear thy name.  Tell me._

Sherlock’s lips parted and, at first, no sound left him.  When he did speak, twas in a voice little more than a whisper.

“Sodomy, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Please note that this is a work of fiction and a not a scholarly thesis; it is here to entertain, not to educate. While I have spent considerable time researching the period, and the words that are available to me from that period, to improve your reading pleasure and to tell the story I want to tell, it is not 100% historically accurate. I apologize if this bothers you.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you hanging in there with me on this; I never in my life thought this story would take me so long. And thank you for your kudos and kind comments, they're life savers. (((hugs))) Without them I might have done what I swore I would never do, abandon a story. This has been a tough one for me, but there's only 2-3 chapters left and I'm going to make it. 
> 
> Wasn't the Special FABULOUS!!! 
> 
> LONG LIVE JOHNLOCK


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear Burning_Up_A_Sun, for the quick beta job. You are so kind!

“Sodomy, John.”

John stared at Sherlock.  Twas no mistaking what he had said; he had said it aloud.  But how could anyone have known about their coupling?  Any one of the three other men, Aldus, Cedric, or Colin might have guessed, but none could have witnessed what he and Sherlock had done; they had been discreet. 

Colin.  It had to be Colin who had turned Sherlock in.  Bloody bastard.  He be the one who had made sure they had had time alone.  He had been the one who knew John and Sherlock be in love; Sherlock had admitted as much. 

Colin be the one they did not know.  The one who had established himself in their good favour by staying with them for days on end, assisting them in every way he could.  The one with the private business to which he never attended.  But why?  Why had he stayed with them? And for what purpose had he turned in Sherlock? 

John lunged at Colin, fisting Colin’s cloak in his hands.  Pulling him up short and yelling into his face. 

“Bastard!”  His hand still smarting from hitting Cedric, John would gladly break every bone of it if it meant destroying Colin. 

“Sir John,” Sherlock said, barking it out when John did not seem to hear him.  “ _Sir! John!_ ”

The second time he heard his name, John’s vision cleared enough to see Colin be immobile, his hands at his sides.  _Why does he not fight back?_

“Sir John.” 

The third time John heard his name, he let Colin loose and turned to Sherlock.

“What?”

“Twas not Colin.” 

“What do you mean twas not Colin?”  Be he no longer able to hear?  Nothing Sherlock said made sense. 

“Twas not Colin,” Sherlock repeated.  “He be my brother.”

John’s mouth fell open, and he turned to Colin, who seemed not at all surprised by what Sherlock said, only by the fact that he had said it. 

As John processed this new information, he studied Colin, and twas as if a candle had been lit. _That_ be why he had had the nagging feeling he had seen him before.  How could he have been so blind?   Now he saw the resemblance.  Whilst Colin be not entirely similar to Sherlock, his height, his build, his full lips and keen eyes - his intellect – all be akin to Sherlock’s.  Twas no one else Colin could be.

Why had Sherlock not told him?

“You be Sherlock’s brother.”  John had no need to ask.

“I tried to tell you,” Colin said.  “I tried to tell Sherlock so many times, but the right moment never came.”

“If not Colin, then who, Sherlock?” John asked, his anger, whilst not boiling as fierce as it had, simmered inside of him.  “Ahhh, Cedric.  Another attempt to rid you.”

“I think you be right,” Sherlock said.

“Come on,” a guard growled, wrenching Sherlock’s arm.  “Off to gaol with you.”

“You have the wrong man,” John beseeched, leaping in front of the guards.  “I be the one you want.”  

“No, John,” Sherlock said sharply.  “Leave this alone.  They know who I be; tis no mistake.”  

_I cannot allow it, Sherlock; tis I who be to blame._

_Thou be to blame for nothing.  There be no error—unless thou denies our love._

_No.  Never in a thousand years would I deny it._

“Out of our way, or we will arrest you, too.”  The guard, impatient, pushed John aside.  “We have the man for whom we came.”

_I will see thee free as soon as I be able._

“Sir John.”  Sherlock gave John a last lingering look as he be hastened along.

_I love thee, too. So, so much._

In troubled silence, John walked with Colin back to the inn.  He had so many questions, but, his heart heavy, he did not know how much more he could cope with. 

“I need to be alone,” John said, setting off, instead to the inn, to the gaol. 

* * *

 

 _Damn fools!_   No one would speak with him about freeing Sherlock.  Not the gaolkeeper, not the sheriff.  He sent a letter to the King seeking a pardon, but it would be days before he received an answer.  If he received any at all.  Colin, as Sherlock’s brother, be allowed to visit Sherlock, but not John.  Fools.  He did not know anyone else to whom he could turn for help; no one else had the authority to make such a decision.

Dejected, John walked back to the inn, his head hung low; twas not like him to let even the most difficult challenges in life defeat him, but _this._ Twas beyond his comprehension.  Neither his physical nor mental strength could help him. Nor the currency which had served him so well for many years, his knighthood; the title alone opened doors for him that others could not walk through.  Gained the willing ears of the powerful.  But not today.  Not when he most needed it.

“Sir John!” 

 _Who calls my name?_   John groaned at the sight of Sir Norman riding toward him. Christ, he did not have the time or the patience for that pompous arse.

“Sir Norman.  Good day.”  John kept walking.  Perhaps Sir Norman would get the hint; he be in no mood for simple conversation.

“I see you had a little trouble today.  Be there anything with which I can help you?”  Sitting tall atop his horse, Sir Norman towered over John, giving his usual air of ‘looking down on’ John new meaning.  And he appeared to enjoy every moment of it.

“Not unless you can secure my squire’s release from the gaol.” John threw out.

“Ha!  Your _squire_ , indeed.  And why would I do that?”

“Because your name be Sir Norman the _Merciful?_ ”  Arse.

“I would help you if I could, but would it not be fraudulent of me as I be the one who put him there?” 

“You _what_ ?” His eyes widening in outraged disbelief, John narrowed them, wishing he had the power to slay Sir Norman with but a look.  “You dishonorable piece of worthless scum.  You must go at once and retract your lies!”

Sir Norman quirked an amused eyebrow.  “Be they lies?  I have it on the best of authority they be not.  I was merely doing a favour for a friend, passing on vital information to those who would want to know.  Sodomy be against the law, you know.  You be fortunate twas not you who I turned in.  I be sure you can agree you owe me a favour for that.” 

“I owe you nothing!  Who be this friend?”  John glared up at Sir Norman, a deep well of hatred building in his soul. _He should, at least be man enough to dismount so we can speak as equals._

“Another of your squires.  Well, one of your ex-squires, I should say.  Cedric he be called.  I have not been acquainted with him long, but apparently long enough to solicit such a juicy morsel.  I do make friends _so_ easily.”

 _So, that be why no one will speak with me about Sherlock; Sir Norman be the one who caused his arrest._ Not that Sir Norman had more influence than John, but he had more than Cedric; Sir Norman’s word had held more weight than Cedric’s would have had.

Livid, John fought against lashing out.  Twould do no good. Sir Norman sat astride a horse, armed with a sword; John had nothing but his anger and his hatred.

“You will pay for this, Norman.  You will not know when.  It may be today; it may be tomorrow.  It may be a year from now.  But I vow to you, as I live and breathe, you will pay for this.”

With a hearty laugh that scraped on what nerves John had left, Sir Norman rode off, adding the indignity of splattering mud on John as he did.

Twas late in the evening when John returned to the room; Aldus and Colin be asleep.  He readied himself for bed, but restless, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep.  Finally, in the wee hours of the night, he rose and moved a chair to the window to sit, staring at the dirty pane. 

“Be you all right?”  Colin rose, taking a stool near to sit by him.

“That, I do not know.  Nay, I do know.  Nothing will be all right again until Sherlock be released.”  In the dim light, he could barely see Colin’s face.  “Thank you for everything you have done.”

“What have I done?” Colin asked, surprised.  “There be nothing for which I need be thanked.”

John shut his eyes; he be tired, so tired.  “You saved Aldus; he would likely not be alive be it not for you.  You fitted Sherlock’s suit and helped us catch Cedric.  You—you gave Sherlock and me the gift of time.  These be no small things.  I know twas for Sherlock and not for me, still, I benefited, as well.  Greatly.  So, thank you.”  He pasted a wan smile on his face.

Many minutes passed with neither saying a word.

“How will you see to Sherlock’s release?”

Rubbing his hand across his face, John said, “In truth, it will take no small miracle.  There will be a trial, of course.  Cedric will have to testify.  I will testify.  But the courts do not take kindly to sodomy; not much persuasion will be needed to convince them that the act has been committed. Tis more a matter of proving it did not happen than it did.”

“And if they find him guilty?”

John heard Colin’s hesitance, but could find no way to ease him into the truth. 

“Sherlock will be hanged.”  _Christ, it cannot come to that._   _I need to talk of something else._   “Who be Sherlock’s parents?  Why did they not search for him?”

“His father?  Of him, I have no knowledge.  His mother?  She be Laila.  From Leith.” 

“Laila?  The old blind woman?  She be your mother?”  John asked with incredulity, rocking forward and resting his elbows on this knees.   “How does Sherlock not know?  He has long been acquainted with her.” 

“Yes, Laila be the mother to both of us.  She did not tell me until two days before I met you and Sherlock that he be my brother.  Tis why I followed you.  I be ashamed that I was too much of a coward to tell him.  I—I wish—“ 

“Tis no use regretting what has passed.  The important thing be that Sherlock now knows.   He has longed for a family, and now he has one.”

Colin, his face haggard, his movements uncertain, lifted his body wearily from the stool, looking many decades older than he be.   “I need to go back to bed.  Unless you desire the companionship?”

“Go.  I cannot sleep and tis no sense for you to miss your rest because of me.”  John turned back to the window, sitting until the sun crested the horizon.

* * *

 

John paced the room, waiting for Colin to return from his visit with Sherlock.

“Be there something I can do for you, Sir John?”  Aldus asked from the corner of the room.

The door opened, and John whipped around. Colin.  “Be he well?  Has he eaten? Did he sleep? They do not treat him harshly, do they?”

Colin’s face tightened, taking on a pallor the likes of which John had rarely seen and, instead of answering John, he said to Aldus, “Will you give us a few minutes alone, please?”

Aldus looked to John for confirmation, quietly exiting the room when John nodded.

“What be it?  Has something happened to Sherlock?”

Colin’s gaze dropped to the floor and, knitting his fingers together, cracked several knuckles.

John steeled himself for news of the worst kind; he had not before seen Colin exhibit such a nervous habit.

“What be it, Colin?”  John measured his voice; he could not let him hear his alarm.  

Lifting his head, Colin said, “Sherlock.”

“Yes, Sherlock.  What about him?”  _Get on with it,_ John wanted to shout, but twould be no use rushing Colin; he would say what he had to say in due time.  _But the due time best be right now!_

“Sherlock…” Colin tried again, his voice drifting off.

“Sherlock, what, Colin?”

“They hang him tomorrow.” 

John’s chest caved in around his heart, crushing it.  His knees giving, he caught himself before the floor did.  _No, it cannot be true.  Tis too soon; there has been no trial._

“You be mistaken; there has been no trial.  Tis someone else to be hanged.”  Said with a certainty he did not feel, John waited for Colin to say ‘Yes, you be right.  Forgive me, tis my mistake.’

Colin did not. 

“They say they called him to court four times.  Since he did not go, they can hang him without a trial.  They say tis the law.”

Colin may have said something else, but John did not hear it.  Thinking quickly, he knew what they had to do.

“Come.”  John grabbed his cloak and headed for the door.

“Where do we go?”

“We will release Sherlock from gaol ourselves.”  He said it with a calmness that looked to frighten Colin.

“You speak madness. You will never get past the guards.  There be too many of them, and Sherlock be shackled to a metal post.”

 _Like a dog._   John’s chest closed in on him more tightly. 

“And what be our choice?  To let him die?  Be this how you want to last see the brother you just found?”

The resolve on Colin’s face told John that he had an ally. 

* * *

 

Close to noon the next day, Colin approached John.  Twas not a responsibility for which he had asked, and twas far from one he wanted, but he took it upon himself.  Twas too important; they had to leave before it be too late.  Before there be not time left to say goodbye to Sherlock.

“Tis time to go, Sir John,” Colin said softly.

Their attempt to themselves free Sherlock would have been laughable had either had the spirit to laugh.  As Colin had said, the gaol, and Sherlock, had been well guarded.  Each time they had neared it, five guards loaded with weaponry barred their advance.  

And so twas the day Sherlock was to pay for his crime.  The crime of loving John.

“Tell him, please, that he be the person I have most treasured, and that—that he always will be.” His voice cracking, John avoided Colin’s eyes.  For the last day, he had heard the pity in Colin’s voice, he did not need to see it, too.  But Colin be Sherlock’s brother; he, too, would be sorrowful at his loss.   When John lifted his face, the kindness he saw nearly broke him.

“Sir John, please go; tell him yourself.  He has asked for you to be there.”  Colin rested his hand on John’s shoulder.  “He needs you.”

“I cannot, Colin,” John said.  “I cannot and will not.”  He could hardly keep his poise now. How much worse would it be were he to see Sherlock hang?

“I understand.  I will not press you; I see it be difficult enough.  But I hope you change your mind.”  Fetching a piece of parchment from his pocket, Colin said, “Sherlock asked me to give you this.” 

John held out his hand, accepting the folded parchment from Colin.  Turning it over and over without opening it, he bid Colin farewell and God speed, closing the door after him as he left.

* * *

 

At a table in the Slaughtered Lamb, a mazer of ale sat in front of John.  The alehouse be eerily quiet.  Had it been any other day, he would have called it deathly quiet, but today the description did not sit well with him. 

He supposed most of the patrons were attending the hanging.  Twas entertainment that appealed to the basest of human instincts.  Mothers and fathers would pack meals and collect their children, making a holiday of it.  Old men and women would watch on, thanking God above they had had the wisdom to live a life free of the type of wickedness that would have subjected them to such a cruel punishment.  And they would all cheer, not for the death of a man, but for their own triumph over death.  For their superiority.

No, if John could not bear to see Sherlock die, how much more unbearable would it be to hear the merry cries in the moments before and after the execution?  There be nothing for which to cheer in seeing Sherlock hanged, not for John.

He cupped the mazer in his hands.  He did not feel like drinking, but he did not know what else to do.  He be lost.

For what must have been the twentieth time since Colin had given it to him, John ran his fingers over the folded parchment, unable to bring himself to read it.  To read it meant it would be the last time he heard Sherlock’s words. It would make what be happening too real, too final. He set it on the table, contemplating it, wondering when he would have the strength to open it.  Tipping the mazer to his lips, he set it back down before drinking any of the warm liquid.

And he looked at the parchment again. 

_It will never get easier, John._

Unfolding the note, he took a deep breath and smoothed the parchment flat on the table.

“Sir John,” it began. _I love thee, too, Sherlock.  I love thee, too._

He swallowed; something thick blocked his throat, making it difficult.  He could not catch his air.  _Tis time to read it,_ John told himself sternly. 

_Sir John,_

_A sentimental_ _man, I be not. I do not dwell on the more, shall I say, romantic aspects of life, as does thou.  I have told thee I love thee and have found that to be quite sufficient._

_Until now._

_Now, I find myself in a predicament that leaves me no time to be anything but completely forthright._

_Thou needs to know, John, that I cannot regret dying.  I only truly lived because of thee._

_Thou needs to know, John, that thou has been the exception to everything I thought I knew about life.  In thy inestimable way, thou has taken every wrong in my life and made it right.  For every harsh word spoken to me before I met thee, thou has uttered loving ones, annulling those that hurt me.  For every beating I took, thou has tenderly caressed my flesh, washing away the pain.  For every scathing look sent my way, thine eyes have shined with adoration and admiration, blinding me to any other._

_I did not deserve thy love, yet thou had the grace to offer me your heart. All of it._

_If I were to live another hundred years, twould not be long enough to repay thee or thank thee.  Knowing it will fall far short of the joy thou has brought me, please, do this for me - accept this note as my way of telling you every day of the rest of thy_ _life, that I love thee.  Hold it next to your heart as if it be me, for I will always be with thee._

_Farewell, John._

_\--Thy Humble Servant, Sherlock_

 

His eyes moist, John wiped them and read the note again.  He folded it and re-opened it.  Read it for a third time.  And a fourth.

_Oh, my love.  My Sherlock.  Thou be **my** exception.  Nothing will ever again be right without thee. _

_How can I be so selfish?_  If not for himself, he needed to be there for Sherlock.Shoving his chair back, it squealed as it raked against the floor.  John threw coins at the table and ran out of the alehouse.  To the square.  

The crowd be massive; it must have been some time since the last hanging, for the thirst for blood be strong.  The chant of “Hang him!  Hang him! Hang him!” filled the square like a dark, thundering cloud hanging low in the sky.

John tore his way through the great throng of bodies.  His shoulders, his elbows, his hands.  Pushing, pulling, butting.  He used whatever tactics needed to get as close as he could to the gallows.  To get as close as possible to Sherlock.

“Let me through!  I be his friend.  Let me through!” he cried, ignoring the faces that looked at him with curiosity.

 _I have to make in time.  I have to make it._ Panic filling him with the fear that he might not, John let his fear fuel him.  Let it give him a burst of strength that forced him through, until he broke to the front of the crowd. 

And there he was.  

Sherlock.

Disheveled, his hair be an untamed mess, his clothes filthy and streaked with blood, but never before had he been more beautiful. He struggled against the ropes that bound him, wild eyes frantically searching. 

_Searching for me._

“John!”  Sherlock called.

“SHERLOCK!”  John yelled, throwing his hand up in the air, praying Sherlock would see him.  Hear him.

He knew the exact moment that Sherlock did.  His love drew a deep, shaky breath, letting it slowly leave him.  A calm settled on his face and relaxed his body as he met John’s eyes.

_I be here, Sherlock._

_Yes….yes._

John stared into eyes that looked intently into his, knowing that he be exactly where he should be.  Wondering how he ever thought he could not be here for Sherlock.  For himself.  Twould not be easy, not by any means, but it would make it easier for both of them.  As in all things, it needed to be the two of them.

_I love thee._

For the second time that day, tears sprang to John’s eyes.  This time, he let them fall unheeded.

Sherlock held his head high, showing he be ready to meet his fate with dignity.

Holding his own head high, John straightened his back and squared his shoulders. 

Twas time.

Time for battle.

The man standing beside Sherlock slipped the noose over Sherlock’s head and tightened it around his neck.  And tugging on the rope one last time to ensure it be well-secured to the beam above, he gave the signal that everything be ready.  

John blinked rapidly, fighting the urge to shut his eyes.  Fighting against witnessing a barbaric act that might well kill him.  But he willed himself to keep his eyes open.  To keep them open until the last glimmer of light left Sherlock’s.  He would never forgive himself were there to be even the slightest chance that the last thing Sherlock saw in life be John shutting him out. 

He would not do that to Sherlock. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very last bit, where John runs to Sherlock, is a tip of the hat to my favorite cinematic scene, ever, from Sommersby. As many time as I've watched that movie, at that point tears are streaming down my cheeks. It's so incredibly powerful and moving.


	23. Chapter 23

“Sherlock of Leith, having been found guilty of the crime of sodomy, you are hereby sentenced to be hanged until death.  Sentence to be carried out immediately.”

Listening to the declaration that would take him from John forever, Sherlock’s gaze clung to John’s eyes.  Eyes filled with love.  And grief. 

_I love thee, John._

_I love thee, too, Sherlock._ John clutched a tattered piece of parchment against his chest, over his heart.  Sherlock’s letter.  

Sherlock blinked back the sting at his eyes.  How much easier it would have been to die had it been before he had met John.  Before he had ever had a taste of how truly wondrous life could be.  Before he had known what love be.

Finished reading the proclamation, the Crier began to count down the seconds until the hanging was to occur.  The last seconds of Sherlock’s life.

“Five!” 

_I do not think I ever told thee how beautiful thou be.  Have I?_

_In so many ways, love, so many ways._

“Four!”

_Do not forget me, John._

_Now be not the time to be an idiot.  It does not become thee._

“Three!”

_John, I-_

“Halt!  Halt I say!  Do not hang this man!” 

Sherlock’s head snapped to his left.  Narrowly skirting a young woman and child who had chosen that moment to cross the square, a horse charged toward the Crier.  The horseman reigned the animal with a force that brought it to a skidding stop and, jumping to the ground, he ran up to the Crier.

_What be happening?_

Reason told Sherlock twas unlikely he be released at such a moment, seconds before they were hang him.  But his heart?  It did not reason.  His heart hoped, and it thumped against his chest, hard and fast.  _John.  I will have more time with John._ He fought against the ropes binding his hands, but they would not give. 

“Steady yourself or you will fall over.”

From behind, rough hands grabbed at Sherlock’s arms, trying to hold him still.  

Lively gestures and agitated expressions told Sherlock that the Crier and the horseman argued.  About what, he could not hear, catching only snatches of their heated exchange. 

“…pardon…release…”

_‘Pardon…release.’  Do they speak of me?_

The horseman unrolled a large piece of parchment and shoved it in front of the Crier’s nose. 

The mood of the crowd had shifted. Some people still chanted: “Hang him!  Hang him!” But many others, their brows furrowed as they cast puzzled glances in the direction of the quarrel, became angry at the interruption: “What be ya waitin’ for?  On with it!”

Sherlock sought out John, but John no longer stood where he could see him.  _Where did John go? They did not take him in my stead, did they?  No!  They cannot do that.  I did not give them his name._ Sherlock fought harder against his restraints, unmindful to the very real threat that should he fall off his stand, he would be responsible for his own hanging.  _John!_

“Quiet!  Quiet everyone!”  the Crier shouted, but the discord amongst the crowd only grew worse.  They wanted blood, and they wanted it now. 

“Be it proclaimed on this day that William, Earl of St Albans, by authority of His Royal Highness, King of England, clears, without prejudice, all charges against Sherlock of Leith.” Turning to Sherlock, the Crier told him, “You be a free man.”

At first, Sherlock did not think he had heard correctly, there be so much _noise_ , but the same hands that had steadied Sherlock removed the noose and untied his hands. He scanned the faces around him, feverishly searching for John’s.  _John.  Where be thee?!_ Fear coursing through him, sweat formed on his brow as, with shaky legs, he stepped off the stand.

Someone touched him lightly on the arm.  His sharp tongue ready to lash out at the person who bothered him, he whirled around.

_John_

Sherlock drew in a deep, shuddering breath.  Looking into eyes shining with happiness, without thinking, Sherlock stretched out his arms.  He needed to hold John.  Desperately.  But at the almost imperceptible shake of John’s head, he dropped them to his sides.

_I, too, need to hold thee, but not here.  Soon, love. Soon I will hold thee, and I promise I will never again let thee go._

“Squire Sherlock, shall I see you to your room?”  John asked, Knight-to-Squire.

Not until that moment did it dawn on Sherlock that he be free.  Free to go wherever he liked.  Free to go with John.  And with a betrayal to which he be unaccustomed, Sherlock’s body would not do what he told it to do; he could not walk. His legs grew weak, and his body trembled.  His breathing laboured, twas as though he had run a great distance.

“Sir John, please,” he managed to say.  “I need—” And as his legs gave way, John caught him by the waist, tightening his hold to keep Sherlock upright. 

“Breathe deep and slow, Sherlock; take your time. Tis natural to be overcome; you have been greatly disturbed.”

More than his words, John’s gentle voice soothed Sherlock, bringing him back to himself.  His normal breathing resuming, though his legs still be unsteady, with John’s help he was soon able to walk away, his pace but a shadow of its usual brisk stride.

“Let us find somewhere to sit for a spell; I do not want thee to keel over.”  John’s eyes creased in worry, and he seemed poised to catch Sherlock at the slightest hint he be about to fail.

“No,” Sherlock said.  “I want to go back to the inn.  I need to be as far away from…that, as I be able.  Where be Colin? I did not see him.  Nor Aldus, not that he has reason to have concern for me.”

“Aldus went home. Said twas not the life for him, too much death and treachery; taking Cedric to gaol be very hard on him.  And when thou went to gaol, it be one tragedy too many for him.”

Nodding sagely, Sherlock said, “I be not surprised to hear he be gone; Aldus be too sympathetic for his own good.  But, Colin?”

“Colin, I do not know; he left for the square before me.  Tis odd, that he be not there.”

“I would have thought…”

“Me, as well.”

They settled into a comfortable silence.  Twas not so far to the inn, but they moved slowly, and Sherlock allowed John to talk him into stopping at a pub to take a meal; he suspected that as much as John desired he eat, John be more determined to see him rest. 

“Who be this William who authorised my release?”  Sherlock asked, pushing mutton around his plate.  “Be he someone with whom you talked?”

Sherlock looked up from his food to John.  Regarding the features that had become so beloved, he fought to quell his overwhelming need to touch him.  To press himself as tightly to him as humanly possible.  To breathe him in.  To taste him.  In truth, to keep from kissing John be like telling himself not to breathe - twas nearly impossible to do.

"Sherlock?"

“Hmmm?”  Sherlock had seen John’s lips move, but so intent be he at the sight of them, he had not heard the sounds that came out of them until John said his name.

“I said, I have no answers. I have met William several times over the years, but I have not recently seen him.  Perhaps he heard of my pleas?  When he be younger, he be quite snappish, but as he aged he mellowed.  As important as it be to know why he interceded, what be more important be that thou get some rest.  Thou be awfully peaked.”

Sherlock started to say something; his mouth fell open, but instead of speaking, he took a small bite of potato.

“What be it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned at John.  It should not be so difficult to say, but the sentiment attached to it made it hard for him to get the words out.   

“Thank you, John.”  To Sherlock’s great embarrassment, his voice broke.   

“Now I _know_ thou be unwell,” John chuckled, but twas not a mean-spirited laugh.  “I did not know thou knew how to say that.”

Attempting to look stern, Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glared, but he had not the fortitude to maintain the pretence.

“All right, thou thanks me.  But for what?  I did nothing.  In fact, I did worse than nothing.  Twas my fault thou be sent to thy death, and I could not save thee.”

“Do not say that.” That time Sherlock did not have to affect his irritation; how could John be so dense? “Thou has saved my life more times than I can count.  But tis not of what I speak.”

“What be it, then?”

“For coming.  Today.”

John’s throat bobbed when he swallowed and, with a sharp nod, he said, “If thou be done eating, let us return to the inn.”

* * *

 

The door opened for them before John’s hand touched the latch, and Colin flung himself at Sherlock, nearly knocking him over. 

“Thank God, brother, you live!”

Twas an odd sensation to be hugged by Colin, but Sherlock could not say twas entirely unpleasant, and he awkwardly patted the air at Colin’s back.  Looking over Colin’s shoulder, he saw a woman sat at the table. _Laila._

“Laila, why be you here?”  Astonished to see her, Sherlock brushed Colin aside.

“Not that he be not glad to see you,” John offered.

“I be about to say that.”

“Of course, you were.”

John, his hands clasped behind his back, rocked on his heels. Sherlock noted a twinkle in his eyes; twas as if John be about to burst with a happy secret.  _Did John plan this?  But why here? Why now?_

Colin, too wearing a grin befitting an idiot, moved to Laila, setting his hands on her shoulders. 

 _Be it Laila’s birthday?  Be it_ my _birthday? No, tis not it._ A chill ran through Sherlock.  _No.  It cannot be._

“Laila, _you_ be Colin’s mother?  Which makes you…” Sorting the information through his brain, Sherlock glanced at John, who still wore that silly grin.

Laila’s hands, resting on her lap, worried at her skirt.  “Yes, Sherlock, you be my son.” 

It took several beats, but the enormity of what Laila said hit him full force. 

“ _Son_?  You may not call me _son_ for you have never been my mother.”  Sherlock spat out ‘mother’ as if it be a bitter poison.  “ _Mothers_ rear their sons; they do not desert them to be raised as a servant.”

“She has come a long way.  Hear what she has to say, Sherlock,” John entreated.  Putting his hand on Sherlock’s arm, twas thrown off with a terse shrug.

Sherlock unleashed his anger on John next.  “And what more be there to hear?  I shall tell you.  Nothing.  I have heard all I want or need to hear.  You knew about this and did not tell me?”

“No, I did not know until two days ago; after you be sent to gaol, Colin told me.  I did not know Laila be in London.”

Everyone, but the person to whom it mattered most, knew about Laila.  The room closed in on Sherlock like he be a small animal cornered by a pack of dogs.  And he fought back.

“So, Colin, you told John, but did not see fit to tell me?  For the last two days, you visited me because you _cared_ so much?  Telling me how glad you be to finally have a brother.  You be as cowardly and traitorous as that woman sitting beside you.   If this be what you call a family, I want no part of it.”

Colin’s smile gone, he dropped his hands from Laila’s shoulders. “I thought it best Sherlock.  I did not know if she would make it to London in time and I did not want to raise your hopes only to have them dashed.  You be so troubled already.”

“So you knew she be coming.”

“Twas I who sent for her.  When you said you were going to enter the tournament, I—I thought it folly, and likely you would not make it out alive.  I wanted her to see you, and you her, in case all did not go well.”

“As you can see, all be well.  She may leave now.  You, too.”

“Oh.” 

Everyone’s attention centered on John when he gasped.

“What?”  Sherlock asked him.

“Tis nothing.” 

“Say it.  It cannot be any more absurd than anything else said here.”

“William,” John said.  “We were speaking of him, the man who granted your release. I remember hearing rumours that years ago he banished a wife and their young son.  I never gave it any thought--”

“You think I be that son.” 

“The pieces do fit.” 

“Be this true, Laila?  Be this William my father?”

“Lower your voice, Sherlock; you scare her.”  Colin grasped Laila’s hand.  “You may not appreciate what she has done, but she went to great lengths to save your life.  _Your_ life. She made the long, arduous journey from Leith and when she arrived and found you were to be hanged, she went to a man who had treated her with the harshest disrespect.  For _you._ Yes, William be your father, but Mother said he has searched--”

“Leave!  Everyone leave.  Now!”  Shouting, Sherlock thrust his finger toward the door. 

The first one to respond to Sherlock’s outburst be John.

“Do you want me gone, too, Sherlock?” 

At John’s uncertainty, a stab of remorse pierced Sherlock.

_Never._

Laila stood and, holding out her elbow, said, “Take me to my room, Colin?  Everyone be tired; it has been a long few days for all of us, especially Sherlock.  He needs his rest.”

Passing Sherlock on the way to the door, she held out her hand, but he deftly stepped back, avoiding her touch.  “I be so sorry, Sherlock.  I mean thee no harm.  I know twould be difficult for anyone to understand what I have done, and why, but I hope you will give me the chance to explain.  And that when you hear what I have to say, you will someday find it within you to forgive me.” 

“Laila, please do not go.”  John moved toward her.  “Sherlock does not mean-” 

“Do not presume to know what I mean, John.  She be unwanted here, just as I was unwanted.”  His voice low and menacing, Sherlock jabbed his finger toward the door one more time.  “Now leave, and do not come back.” 

“It be all right, Mother,” Colin said, consoling Laila.  “He will come around; he be a good man.  As you say, it has been difficult for him.” 

Sherlock slammed the door as soon as it be only him and John left in the room. 

“It will be a cold day in Hell before I ‘come round.’  Worse than abandoning me, she be under my nose the whole time!  Many opportunities she had to tell be who she be, but did she?  She knew I had no mother and yet she treated me as a guest, someone she could pat on the head and send on my way.” 

His head down, his hands steepled at his mouth, Sherlock paced the floor, the extent of Laila’s betrayal infusing every nook of his being.  Twas one matter to think he had no mother; twas another to discover she lived nearby his entire life yet cared so little about him she could not be troubled to reveal who she be. 

And he be angry because right now he should be _happy._ Happy to be alive.  Happy to be with John.  But he found it impossible to think of anything but Laila’s lies.  Not for the first time, she had stolen his happiness from him.   She should have cared for him; instead, she had deceived him.  For years.

“Let me know when thou be done.” 

So immersed be he in his misery, Sherlock had forgotten he be not alone. 

“What?” 

“I said, let me know when thou be done feeling sorry for thyself.”  John poured water into a tub, looking wholly unperturbed. 

How annoying.  He should be railing at the world on Sherlock’s behalf.

“Does thou think I have no reason to be affronted?”  Sherlock strode the short distance to the tub and peered into it. 

“Yes, I do.  Thou has had to endure great hardships because thou had no family.  Tell me this, though – how does thou know that with them thou would have had a better life?  And how will staying angry serve thee?”  

Dammit.  Sherlock hated it when John spoke sensibly.

“When did that get here?”  Sherlock asked, nodding at the tub.

“Whilst thou be…wherever thou has been.  The innkeeper brought it, and buckets of warm water, so thou can bathe.”

Taking a longing look at the water, without protest, Sherlock raised his arms so John could ease his shirt off.  Tossing the filthy garment into the corner, John loosed the belt of Sherlock’s breeches; as Sherlock stepped out of them he balanced himself by holding onto John’s shoulder.  Any other time Sherlock might have bristled at being helped to undress as if he were a child.  But, his defenses diminished by exhaustion, he instead felt a tightness in his chest, a deep well of love and gratitude for the man who had seen the very worst of him.  The man who had been _through_ some of the worst with him, yet, John still be here.  And not only here, but loving him.  Caring for him with kindness and tenderness.  Twas most humbling.

Rolling his sleeve up, John dipped his elbow into the water.  “It be just right; it will feel good.  Now come on, get in; thou be shivering.”

Sherlock stepped into the water and slid down, sinking beneath its surface.  Resting his head on the rim, for the first time since the joust he gave himself permission to think of something other than battles and fear and loss.  Gave himself permission to think of nothing at all. 

He felt his anger flow out of him, where it mixed in with the water and floated away.

John ran a soapy cloth along his arms, down his neck and chest.  Under the water to wash his legs and his feet.  Gentle and rhythmic, the ministrations relaxed him even more, and he released a deep sigh.   

“I love thee,” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I do not deserve it, John.”  Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head back so he could look at John, albeit upside down.  He needed John to see his eyes, to see his sincerity.

“I know,” John said with what must have been an impish smile (twas so hard to tell from upside down), and then he kissed Sherlock on his nose.

His _nose._

“Sit up and lean over; I want to wash thy hair.” 

Pretending to grumble (for, after all, he did not get a kiss, did he?), Sherlock complied.  After pouring tepid water over him, John’s strong fingers rubbed his head, working the soap’s lather through his hair.  It felt so good…

John joggled Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, wake up.  Cannot have thee drown.” 

His head jerking up, Sherlock squinted at John.

“Let me dry thee and get thee to bed.”  Helping Sherlock out of the tub, John patted him down, wicking away moisture with a towel warmed by the fire.  And after John finished, Sherlock followed him to the bed, melting onto it.

“Lie with me?” Sherlock’s head on the pillow, he turned his face up as John covered him with a blanket.

“Silly man.  Nowhere else holds any appeal for me.”

After barring the door and taking off his clothes, John climbed onto the bed beside Sherlock so they were face to face. 

John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s still damp hair, along his scalp through to the ends of the tendrils.  And when he be finished, he started again.

Sherlock scooted deeper into the curve of John’s body and closed his eyes.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed.  He could stay like this forever.

“I think thou should listen to what Laila has to say.”

“There be nothing she can say that will change my mind.”  Hovering close to sleep, twas no bite in Sherlock’s tone.  The only thing that mattered be the feel of John’s hand stroking his cheek, the kiss to his forehead.

 “Thou does not know; she might have had good reason for what she did.”

“Hm.  Doubtful.”

“Sometimes, people do something hurtful to save someone they love from a greater pain.  She be a kind woman, and I do not think she would ever purposely hurt thee.”

“There thou goes, romanticising again.  People do not work that way, John.” 

“Do they not?”

“No.”

“Then why did thee not tell the sheriff with whom thou had sexual relations?”

Sherlock tensed.  _How did John know he had been asked?_

“Look at me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, leaning back so John could see them.

“Thou could have saved thy own life had thou given my name, yet thou did not.  Why not?”

“Twas not their concern.”

“True.  But had thou told them twas me, thou would have spared thy life.  Thou did not, instead sparing mine.”

“Thou seems to be proving my point, John. I did not tell, and so thou lived.  Alive be better than dead.”

“No, thou has one detail wrong.”

“What?” 

“Thou did what thou thought to be right, yet it would have hurt me far more to have watched _thee_ die than to have died myself.”

When Sherlock did not offer a response, John went on.

“It could be the same with Laila.  What she did hurt thee, but had she done nothing it might have hurt thee more.  We cannot always know what the best course will be; we do our best for those we love and hope it turns out well.  Please, think about talking to her?  If not for thyself, then for me?” 

What if John be wrong and Laila had left him behind for selfish motives?  How much worse would it hurt if she had?  But John had said ‘please, for me.’ 

“I will think on it.” 

“Tis all I can ask.  Thank you, sweetheart,” John said, resting his mouth on Sherlock’s, gracing him with one small, sweet kiss.

His eyes fluttering closed against his will, the last thing Sherlock heard before he fell asleep be John’s soft “I love thee, so much.  I would be lost without thee.”  

Be there anything more he needed?

* * *

 

Sherlock blinked awake.  Twas dark yet, but the fire still blazed, casting an orangish-red hue throughout the room.  John stirred but did not wake, when Sherlock propped himself on his elbow so he could watch John’s face, the glow of the fire’s flames dancing across it.

Never had Sherlock considered that blessings or good fortune, or even luck, applied to his life.  Not until now.  And how fortunate he be. To be able to love, and be loved by, a man such as John was beyond anything he had ever dreamed.  But as he watched John, the man he loved so well, there be no other way to explain how his life had changed since they had met.  It did not mean life be unblemished, not at all.  But when things did go wrong, Sherlock had someone with whom to share his troubles, someone upon who he could depend.   Someone who cared about him.  Not just whether he lived or died, but cared about his well-being, his happiness.  It had to have been fated that they had met and fallen in love; their union be far too extraordinary to think it could have been otherwise. 

“I love thee, John.  _My_ John,” Sherlock whispered, lightly touching his lips to those turned toward him.  Twas a small act, but it filled him with anticipation for all that their life together would be. 

Sherlock thought about what John had said, about listening to what Laila had to say.  That there could be a noble reason she had left him in someone else’s care.  And he resolved to talk to her.  For John.  If the best and wisest man Sherlock had ever known said that be what he should do, then he would do it. 

“Sherlock?  Be thou all right?” John asked, half-awake. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered. “Perfect.”

A smile tipped up the ends of John’s mouth.  “Yes, my love, thou be perfect, absolutely perfect,” he said before slumber reclaimed him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, and laid his head on his chest.  Listening to the reassuring cadence of John's heart as it lulled him back to sleep, he murmured, “Only when thou be with me. Only then.”


	24. Chapter 24

**6** **MONTHS LATER**

 

“What in _hell_ be thee doing?”

“Problem?”

“Tis a body lying on the floor, Sherlock.  And be that—be that Mavis?”  John glowered at Sherlock.  What be the man thinking _this_ time?

“Do not look me that way; tis not my fault she be dead.”

Crossing his arms, John waited for an explanation, a reasonable explanation.  Doubting he would get one.

“Honestly, John, thou thinks I would kill an old woman?  Look at her skin; she had a lung condition and expired in her sleep.  Thy accusation sorely aggrieves me.”

Undaunted by Sherlock’s pretence at hurt feelings, John continued to glare at him, tapping a toe in emphasis.   “Well?  What be she doing here?”

“Tis the perfect solution to our problem, John.”

“What problem?”  And why did Sherlock always act as if John knew about what Sherlock spoke?

“Thou knows how servants gossip.  I remove her head and announce twas her punishment for speaking out of turn.”

John’s brow crinkled, and Sherlock added, “About _us_?”

“Thou can _not_ be serious.  Tis disrespectful—”

“Why would she care; she be dead.  Does thou have a better idea?”

“Sherlock—”

“I thought not.”  Sherlock picked up the axe sat abreast of the wall.

“Put down the axe, Sherlock.  NOW.”

“What if I—”

“No.”

“But thou has not heard--”

“Just.  No.”

_Dear Lord,_ John thought, _now he be pouting.  Here I thought I found myself a man, but instead, I have found myself a princess.  But what a pretty princess he be._ John sighed, knowing that though Sherlock be prone to small fits of temper, they swiftly blew over.   Usually, because John gave in.

“All right, let me hear it.  Thou will not leave me in peace until thou tells me.”

Twas as if John had waved a magic wand, that be how fast the pout transformed into a smile and shining eyes; Sherlock could not wait to share his plan with John.  And in truth, John could not wait to hear it, if for no other reason than to make Sherlock happy.

“What if I make it _look_ as she be punished?  I wrap her in cloth, pour pig blood on her in this area,” Sherlock walked slowly around the body, his finger pointing, cutting through the air this way and that as if he be mentally dissecting Mavis. “Make it appear as if she be beheaded.  Tis so much people see, yet rarely do they observe.”

“And thou will not put a mark on her?”  John narrowed his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock said, frowning.  “Thou thinks I would lie to thee about such a thing?

“Yes.”

“I suppose thou be right, but this time, tis no need.  Now, to acquire a small vat of blood.  Should not be difficult.”

As Sherlock pranced toward the door, John grabbed him by the waist, drawing him near. 

“Thou be completely mad; thou knows that, right?” 

“Thou likes mad men; I have it on the highest authority.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“I do, God help me.  Only one, though.”  Tilting his head up to meet Sherlock’s kiss, John reached around Sherlock’s slim frame to cup his bum.  How it could be so round and plush on an otherwise lean body, John had no idea.

“Not again. Do you two never come up for air?”

Colin.

“Do you never knock?”  Sherlock countered, his lips curving against John’s in a smile.

“Be that Mavis?”

Resigned to the fact that his and Sherlock’s privacy would resume no time soon, John released Sherlock and turned around in time to see Colin’s horror.

“Why does everyone keep asking me her name?  How would I know?”  Sherlock asked.

“She served us tea every morning, Sherlock.”  John sighed. Twas no use trying to compete with a long lost brother and a conversation of dead bodies; Sherlock be gone to him for the time being.  But John could not find it within himself to begrudge the interruption; he knew he would never be able to keep up with Sherlock’s brain.  But Colin?  Startlingly alike the brothers be but thank God Colin had common sense, helping to keep Sherlock out of the worst kinds of trouble.

John listened to the brothers’ conversation whilst puttering around the room, his attention on Sherlock.  On the excitement in his eyes, the graceful movements of his body.  And when, every once in a while, Sherlock glanced over with sparkling eyes and smiled, John knew that no matter how intrigued Sherlock be by whatever else went on around him, no matter how glad Sherlock be to have a family, John be at the forefront of his mind. 

“I had best go; I have a wedding to attend.” Colin beamed with delight at the mention of his nuptials coming later in the day.  “I do not want Millicent to think I have run off; twould be poor form to leave the bride without a husband.” 

“Congratulations, by the way,” Sherlock tossed out as Colin hurried toward the door.  Taking the axe to the corner of the room and setting it next to the wall, Sherlock patted it, clearly disappointed he would not be putting it to use.                                   

“Thank you?  So you have said before.”

“Because of the child.”

“Child?  What child?  Whose child?”  Mid-stride, Colin stopped and spun toward Sherlock.

“Come now, tis obvious.  Millicent urged you to marry after knowing each other for only a few months; why the rush?  She be sewing infant garments which she says be for a friend, but tis no one with whom Millicent be so intimate that she would commit so much time.  And she be unusually cautious lifting heavy items, often asking for assistance, which is not her usual wont.  She be with child; tis no other explanation.

Colin stood staring at Sherlock. 

“The flowers below your bedchamber window.  Your servant does not empty the chamber pot out that window; she empties it out a window farther down the wall.  Millicent becomes ill suddenly, so she leans out your window.  Thus, the flowers be dead.”

“My God!  I am to be a father!”  As if snapping out of a daze, Colin ran out the door.

“Amazing.  Simply amazing.”  Sidling up to Sherlock, John slipped an arm around him.   “Now, where were we?” 

“No time, John; I am in need of some pig blood.  I promise I will make it up to thee tonight.”  And with a light press of his mouth to John’s, Sherlock be gone. 

* * *

 

Both the wedding ceremony and meal finished, music resounded throughout the Great Hall.  Guests, their laughs jarring and loud, their movements imprecise from a seemingly endless flow of wine, danced to the spritely sounds coming from a trio of flutists.

John and Sherlock sat alone in the far corner of the room.  In part so Sherlock would not be troubled by tedious conversations, but also so they could hold hands under the table, hiding them from prying eyes.  As much as Sherlock enjoyed teasing John about his romantic bent, Sherlock had been moved by the ceremony and stayed as close to John as could be deemed proper.

“Sherlock, soon they will play something less brisk; go dance with thy mother.  Colin cannot watch after her the entire evening; he be newly married.”  John’s knee bounced, and his whole body swayed back and forth in rhythm with the music.

“I think thou be the one who wants to dance; look at thee, about to fall off thy chair.  I will wait here.  Go.”

Twas no doubt John be restless, but Sherlock be the one with whom he wanted to dance.  The one John wanted to twirl until Sherlock grew so dizzy he lost his balance, and John would catch Sherlock in his arms and they would laugh and kiss and start over from the beginning. 

A wave of sadness swept over John.  Twas so much he and Sherlock would miss because they lived in a world that proclaimed their love an aberration.  Never would they dance in public.  Never would they hug or hold hands unless in private.  And most grievous, never would they marry.  _Shut up,_ John admonished himself.  _Tis a small price to pay for the joy of spending every night in your love’s arms; never have you been happier._

“Be thou sickly, John? Thou does not look well.”

“No, all be well, Sherlock. Tis that sometimes I wish…”

“Thou wishes what?”

Giving Sherlock a wan smile that he hoped be convincing, John said, “Nothing.  Tis nothing, love.” 

“I do, too, John.”

John lifted his eyebrows to ask ‘what?’, and Sherlock nodded his head toward the frolicking crowd.  How in God’s name did Sherlock do that, always know what he be thinking? 

_Dear Christ, I love thee._

“Thou knows it be the same for me _._ Have fun; dance with Laila.” 

“Thou be sure?  Thou will not be bored?” 

“What bores me be that thou thinks thou has to take care of me every second.”  _I will miss thee._

_No more than I will thee._

Freeing his hand from Sherlock’s, John pushed his chair back and crossed the floor to where Laila sat, on his way tipping his head toward several tittering maidens.  He avoided eye contact; an eligible bachelor he supposedly be, but he would not lend false hope that he would ask for anyone’s hand in marriage. 

“Laila,” John called out several feet from her; he did not want to discomfit her with a sudden approach.  Reaching her, he rested his hand on her arm.   “Would you do me the privilege of taking this dance with me?”

“Sir John, how lovely,” she said.  “Tis kind of you.”

“John, please.  I have relinquished my title.” 

“I be sorry to hear that.”  Standing, Laila took John’s arm when he guided her hand to it.  “But I cannot help but think once a knight, always a knight. Tis not just a title, tis a bearing, a way of treating the people around you. You be a fine young man, Sir John the Courageous of Cambridge, and you will always be Sir John to me.” 

Twas for good reason John liked Laila.  Not only had she birthed the man who brought him such happiness, but she always saw the best in people despite the difficulties she had had to overcome.  She be a rare woman. 

“Twas a lovely wedding, be it not?”  _Dammit, John, she be blind; how would she know if it be lovely._ “What I mean to say be--”

“I know what you mean, Sir John, and yes, twas a _beautiful_ wedding, though twould have been so nice to have William here.  I know Millicent misses him so.”

“From what little time I spent with him, he seemed a good man, Laila.”

“Yes, that he was.  I be so, so grateful I was able to see him before he died.  It did not give us back the years we lost, but it will ease my regrets for what happened between us, knowing he tried to find Sherlock and me.  My only regret now be that I was so capable of hiding us from William.”

As he and Laila moved about the floor, John added another attribute to the list of reasons he admired Laila - she be a graceful dancer.  Looking over her shoulder, John saw that the table at which he and Sherlock had sat be empty.  _Where be he?_

“Sherlock, him I worry about, that he speaks to me so little,” Laila said, and John leaned down, straining to hear her over the noise in the hall.   “I know by the time I left London he had not entirely resolved his anger.  Be he still upset with me?  Before he knew I be his mother, he be not so miserly with his hugs and twas not uncommon for him to kiss me on the cheek.  Now, he be so reserved.  I worry that by telling him who I be I have lost him forever.  Did I do the wrong thing?”

Hearing the sorrow in Laila’s voice, John felt a pang of compassion.

“I do not think so,” John said. “I wish you could see him the times he be around you; tis not that he has not forgiven you, but that he be overwhelmed by what you did for him. I assure you, Sherlock knows you did it out of love and not because you did not care for him.  It does not come easily to him to express sentiment.” 

 “I had no idea.  He has never said a word.”  Laila laughed, a tinkling chime of a laugh; what John said had obviously cheered her.  “But then, tis what you said; he does not express himself in such a manner.  I should be patient, that be what you say.”  

“Sherlock be an extraordinary man, Laila; his intellect will help him find his way.  If I may say, despite having been separated from you at such a young age, I have no doubt he owes a great deal of his intellect and sensibilities to you.”

“I would like to think you be right in that, but I do not deserve such merit; if he does forgive me, much of his ability to do so be due to you.” Laila squeezed John’s hand.   

“Me?  I have done nothing but be his friend.”

“Oh, Sir John, do not be so modest.  Tis you who has given him a stability he has never known.  And from what I understand, you be the first one he has allowed himself to love.”

The last statement caught John off guard, and he coughed as if he had swallowed something the wrong way.  “I have no idea what you mean.”  _She cannot mean…_

“Oh, do not think I am unaware he has found a special friend in you.  Just because I am blind does not mean I cannot see.”

“And you have no—qualms about our, err, friendship?”

“Sir John, who am I to stand between two people who love each other? You have seen what it did to my family; twas only by the grace of God that we be brought back together.  No, you be a good man, a very good man, and I can think of no better friend for Sherlock.”  Twas no disparagement in the way she said ‘friend,’ even though it sounded to be a most intimate arrangement.  “The two of you be comfortable in the cottage?” 

John flushed. Be there nothing that escaped Laila’s notice? 

“Colin and Millicent say you be welcome to stay in the castle,” Laila went on, “but if you prefer the cottage.”

“It feels like our home.  The castle would be fine, but we both think tis an austerity to it that does not suit us.  I mean no offence.”

“Yes, I think I agree with you.  At your ages, and with your and Sherlock’s particular circumstance, tis right that you protect your privacy.

_What an unusual conversation._

“Thank you,” John said, his voice thick with emotion.   “You and your family have been most kind to welcome me into your fold.” 

“There be no need to thank me, Sir John; I knew as soon as I met you that there be a unique quality to you.  You be as much a part of the family as any other of us.  Now, you had best get back to your young man; if I know my boy, he be getting impatient about now.”

“Me, impatient?  Do I get impatient, John?”

From behind John came the heady sound of Sherlock’s voice, and a hand clapped him on his shoulder, gripping it.

“No, never.  Not you, Sherlock.  Always as calm as butterfly on a summer day, you be.”  But John be not calm, not right then.  After spending only a few minutes away from Sherlock, John’s heart fluttered at seeing him again; six months on and John still be as affected as a boy with his first love.  _He be my first love.  And my last._

“Be you enjoying yourself, Sherlock?  Tis a wonderful occasion, be it not?”  Laila and John had stopped dancing, and she clasped her hands together in front of her, tilting her head up as if trying to meet Sherlock’s gaze were he to be looking at her.

Whereas moments before Sherlock’s voice had been smooth with confidence, he now seemed to flounder for something to say, and he looked to John.

_Say ‘yes.'_

“Yes.” 

_Dance with her._

_Dance?_

_Yes, dance.  Thou knows, that thing where thou moves thy exquisite body to a melody?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _I know what dancing be._

“Be something wrong?” 

“Nothing be wrong, Laila.  Sherlock has wanted all evening to dance, and now he realises he be a horrible dancer and—”

“I am _not_ a horrible dancer.”  Sherlock glared at John.

“It has been a great pleasure, Laila.”  John bowed to Laila, feeling he owed her the courtesy whether or not she be aware he bowed.  Pressing his lips to her cheek and letting them linger to show the kiss be sincere affection and not perfunctory, John said, “I shall leave you in Sherlock’s capable hands.”

_John, do not leave me alone._ Sherlock looked panic stricken.

_Thou has been through much worse, love, than spending time alone with a woman thou has known and adored all thy life.  Pretend she just be Laila, the kind old woman from Leith, no more no less. Thou can do it; I have faith in thee.  I will sit over there._  And as John walked off, twas as if he felt Sherlock’s eyes bore into his back. 

By the time John sat down and glanced over, Sherlock awkwardly held Laila in a loose embrace, taking tentative steps in time with the music.

John questioned if he had done the right thing, passing Laila on to Sherlock as he had, but he needed to get Sherlock to talk to her somehow. What John had told Laila be for the most part true, that Sherlock be overwhelmed by what she had done for him, but there must be something John did not know.  Why else would Sherlock not talk to a parent for whom he had been searching his whole life? 

Sipping his wine, John sat alone, watching as Sherlock and Laila finished their dance and sat back down at her table.  Sherlock looked over at him.  Twas not for the first time he had done so since John had left him and Laila alone, though the gaps between had lengthened, and Sherlock held himself in an increasingly relaxed manner.

_Everything_ _going well?  Thou looks to be enjoying thyself._

  _I am._ Sherlock seemed to be surprised that he was.  _We be talking of her and father, of how they met and what I be like as a little boy._

_Ha!_ John laughed.  _I can only imagine that be why she has so many grey hairs!  A right terror thou were; I be sure._

_John._ At first, Sherlock looked as if he reproached John, but then he smirked.

_Only thou, beloved.  Only thou would take that to be a compliment._ John stifled a yawn and, rubbing his eyes, blinked the exaggerated blink of someone forcing themself to stay awake.

_Go on to bed; I will be here a while.  If that be all right with thee?_

_Of course, but I can stay if thou likes._ John said it half-heartedly; it had been a busy day and nothing sounded better than climbing into their bed.  Well, nothing except climbing into their bed with Sherlock in it. 

_No, thou needs thy rest._

_Tis true.  I will wait in bed for thee_.

_I can hope for nothing better._

* * *

 

Crouched in front of the cottage's hearth, John threw another log into it and yawned. The heat from the fire toasting his skin, it reached all the way down to his bones, warming them. He eyed the bed. 

After one last peek outside and seeing no Sherlock, John stripped off his clothes and huddled under the blankets, soaking in the luxury of the feather bed.  With silk sheets, no less.  He had missed the bed he had had in Cambridge; too many nights slept on makeshift beds had done no favours for his shoulder. 

John fought a good battle, trying to engage his mind to stay awake until Sherlock’s return, but he lost, falling asleep; surely Sherlock would wake him.  As John had done every night since he and Sherlock had met, he dreamed of Sherlock.  Sherlock in his arms.  Sherlock, strong and beautiful and always his.  Only his. 

Soft lips suckled at John’s throat, and he tipped his head back.  He be not sure whether he be awake or asleep, but he wanted more.  He could never get enough. Enough of Sherlock. 

Sleep-warm, John threw off his blanket; the fire would do.

“John.”  

“Sherlock,” he sighed as the lips that be so provocative drifted up to his ear and murmured his name.

“John,” the voice persisted, rumbling into his ear and driving him to distraction as it rarely failed to do.

John cracked an eye open. “Mmmm, _tis_ thou,” he said, a smile spreading wide across his face; it had been forever since he last had last seen his love.

“Hm,” Sherlock grunted. “Be thou expecting a different lover?”

“Well, I thought perhaps--no!” John gasped, giggles chasing not far behind.  “Do.  Not.  Tickle me!  _Sherlock._ No-o-o.”

And just like that, the offending hands be gone.  But they would not be gone for long.  Just long enough for Sherlock to undress, an act John observed with an eye for detail of which Sherlock would approve. 

Unlike the first time John saw Sherlock’s naked body, this time he allowed himself to dwell on every curve, every plain, every expanse of firm flesh as they be revealed.  And when he thought he could no longer withstand the torment, when he be ready to leave the bed to claim what be his, Sherlock came to him, lying so close that John could see the flecks of green and blue and silver – and every other colour in the ocean - in his eyes.

John breathed Sherlock’s scent in.  Hungry, he be so hungry for Sherlock, a need that would never be sated.  He reached for Sherlock’s nape, winding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and marveling, for what could easily be the thousandth time, how sleek and downy they felt against his skin.

“Cut short like this, thy hair be not fashionable, but thy curls be so much softer.  Mischievous, like thee. Christ, they will be the death of me.  _Thou_ will be the death of me.”  John rolled, pressing himself along the length of Sherlock’s body, bringing them closer together for a languid kiss.  John melted, certain he could be quite happy the rest of his days if he never left the cradle of this man’s arms.   _Tis what Heaven be,_ John thought.

Heaven moved, disengaging the arms in which John had so contentedly lied. 

“Where does thou go?” John asked, dismayed, but he did not have to wait for an answer; twas but a moment before it became exceedingly clear where Sherlock went.  And why.  John, already half-erect, swelled further at the thought of Sherlock’s sinfully luscious mouth on him.

Crawling toward the end of the bed, Sherlock dotted a trail of kisses on John’s chest and belly, but he failed to stop where John had expected. Nudging John onto his back, Sherlock splayed his fingers, palming the inside of John’s thighs and spreading them. 

John tensed at the cool hands on his sensitive skin, as Sherlock knelt between John’s legs, skidding back on the bed. Their gazes locked, Sherlock’s eyes were dark as he lowered his head.  A measured, tantalising descent.  Maddening.  John no longer heard any sound around him.  Felt nothing but the pulse of his manhood.  Saw nothing but tangled curls as the rest of Sherlock’s head disappeared.

“Jesus.” 

“Hmmm?”  Sherlock hummed, clutching John’s thighs, mouthing his testicles. The tip of Sherlock’s tongue flicking the tender skin underneath them.

John flinched at the jolt of sensation, arching his back and grabbing clumps of bedsheet as he struggled to maintain a modicum of control. _That tongue_. 

“Thou be—thou be the—devil incarnate.”  But John could not help from angling deeper into Sherlock’s mouth, desperate for more. Desperate to make it stop before he burst. 

“You—thank God,” John panted as Sherlock released his hold.  John gulped air into his lungs; it seemed hours instead of a handful of seconds since he had last taken any in.

Twas but a brief respite.

Sherlock’s glorious, _wicked_ mouth slid up to the base of John’s member, and Sherlock took his _goddamn fucking sweet time_ dragging his lower lip the length of John, tortuous increment by tortuous increment.  Reaching the tip, Sherlock teased the wet slit before taking John in, and John moaned, a ragged, unearthly sound.  No, longer able to think, in one fluid movement spurred by instinct, John curled up to fist a mass of Sherlock’s hair, driving his member deeper into the moist hollow that greedily swallowed him. 

As he did with anything, in that moment Sherlock applied all his efforts to one thing and one thing only.  Sucking, swirling, gripping, stroking.  Swift and precise.  And his hands.  John could not keep track of where Sherlock’s hands be; they seemed to be everywhere at once. 

John plummeted into an eddy of ecstasy.

“Sherlock, love—stop,” John begged; he did not want to finish before he could gratify Sherlock.  Or at least begin.

But Sherlock did not stop until he took John all the way to the precipice.  And over. 

A groan, born from deep inside his body, left John as he spilled himself, as the last lingering waves of pleasure left his body.  Spent, he blew out shallow huffs of air as he sprawled limply on the bed.  With a hand so heavy he could barely move it, John stroked Sherlock’s head where it lied on his belly, and said, “Tis thy turn.”

“No need,” Sherlock mumbled, his own breathing laboured, and his arm draped lazily over John’s legs.

“What does thou mean, ‘no need’”?  John knew well that Sherlock’s carnal appetite be as ravenous as his own. 

“I mean, tis no need.” Sherlock lifted his head, a sheepish grin on his face as he looked at John.

“Ahhh.”  John smiled back.  “Come here.”  He waved his hand, and Sherlock crawled up, flopping onto his stomach and laying his head next to John’s.

“Thou be out quite late,” John mused, rubbing Sherlock's back.  “The fire almost be dead.  About what did thou and Laila speak?  I know thou has forgiven her, but what has held thee back from talking to her until tonight?”  What John also wanted to know, but did not ask, be why Sherlock refused to call Laila Mother.

“We spoke of Father; she told me how much like him I be, that she thinks I will make a fine Earl.  About my life as a servant.  Colin.”

Sherlock grew silent, a silence that stretched on to the point that John thought Sherlock had fallen asleep, but he had not.

“We talked of that sickly sweet emotion of which thou be so enamoured.” 

Puzzled at first, it came to John.  “Oh, thou means love.”  There had been a playfulness in Sherlock’s tone that told John he should not take the scornful words to heart.

“Yes.”

Because Sherlock did not go on, instead rubbing his thumb in small circles on John’s hip, John knew the subject of love be what bothered Sherlock. But why? Sherlock had never liked to talk about love, but that did not mean he did not every day show John how much he cared for him.

“Love for me?”  John asked.

“Generally.”  The thumb went round and round, pausing only for Sherlock to scrape his nail over a small bump and examine it.

_Generally.  What does that mean?  Tis not like Sherlock to be so lacking in detail.  _When nothing else be forthcoming, John decided he would have to try another approach; asking Sherlock straight forward be getting John nowhere.  _What be it Sherlock does?  He tricks people into the truth by asking them something contradictory._ John took a fortifying breath; he be not as cunning as Sherlock.  Nor did the lie he needed to tell sit easy with him.

“I understand; ‘sickly sweet,’ thou says.  What thou be trying to tell me be that thou has no room in thy life for love.  I hope thee and thy earldom be very happy.”  Pulling away from Sherlock, John said, “Tis too late tonight for me to leave.  Will the morn be soon enough?  I can sleep on the floor.”

Swifter than John had ever before seen Sherlock move, and that be swift, Sherlock snaked his arm around John’s middle and pinned him to the bed. 

“How can thou be so stupid?” Sherlock snapped.  “Tis not that I do not love thee, tis that I did not know I be able to love two people at once.  If I let myself love Laila, then I be afraid I would lose the love I have for thee, and that I cannot, _will not_ tolerate.”  He clamped his mouth shut as if he had said too much.

Stunned by the revelation, John thought he might never have heard anything so absurd.  But thinking about it, it made sense.  Sherlock had no personal experience with love, either romantic or familial.  Hell, Sherlock had never truly had a friend.  And as smart as Sherlock be, there be many areas in which he lacked knowledge.

Folding Sherlock into his arms and hugging him tightly, John said, “Sweetheart, thou has a far, far greater capacity for love than thou realises.  Thou does not lose one love because thou starts loving another.” 

“Twas what Mother said.  She said that loving another person does not mean love be added, but that it be multiplied.  That love has no bounds.” 

“She be a wise woman.  And thou, my love, be wise, too; thou proved it when thou fell in love with me.”  Hoping Sherlock would see, as he did, the humour in what he had said, John chuckled.  Sherlock did not join him.

John looked up to where Sherlock had propped himself up on his elbow.  _He be so intent, what be he thinking?_

“I have something for thee,” Sherlock announced, reaching over the side of the bed.

_A present?  Tis not like him to give me presents._ John shuddered.  _I hope it be not a skull from the old battleground; he has been digging around over there._

Setting a small box between them, Sherlock opened it.  Inside, cushioned on a rich cloth, sat two gimmel rings, one plain, the other adorned with an emerald and a ruby.

“These be my parents, my mother’s engagement ring and the one my father wore after they married.  Twas one reason I came to thee so late tonight; she said she wants me to have them.  For when I find the person I cannot live without.”

John looked at the rings and then at Sherlock, the way his eyes trained on John, unblinking.  As if Sherlock be worried, waiting for something.  

As if he be asking a question.  

John did not mean to make Sherlock wait for an answer, not at all.  Nor was it John’s intention to make Sherlock doubt what he would say.  But to behold this man who every day be a miracle, this man who be asking him, _John_ , to stay with him for a lifetime, filled John with an emotion he could not describe.

And when John composed himself, in a voice as soft and certain as his love for Sherlock, he said, “Yes, Sherlock. Of course.  It could be no other way.”

Sherlock blinked - once, twice - and then a smile graced his mouth, and he reached behind John’s neck, removing his necklace.  With trembling fingers, he took the bejeweled ring from the box and threaded it onto the necklace where it joined the two other possessions most precious to John: his son’s ring, and a small leather pouch that held the note Sherlock had written before he was to be hanged.  Replacing the necklace around John’s neck, Sherlock took a thin cord from the box and slid it through the other ring. 

“Let me.”  His own hands unsteady, John reached the ends of the cord around Sherlock’s neck and secured it.  

“Now thou be mine, all mine,” Sherlock said, his tone full of wonder.

“Twas never any doubt.” 

His brow furrowing, Sherlock said, “But I distinctly recall, John—”

“Shush. Twas never any doubt, not in my heart.” 

“But, John—”

“Truly?  Thou chooses _now_ to bicker?”

“But—”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Why—oh.  I like the way thou thinks, Sir John.”

“I love thee, too, Sherlock.  Always.”  And then, as he would countless times to come in the years ahead, John showed Sherlock how very much he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord, I feel like I should just have written, "And they lived happily ever after," that's how hokey the ending is. But hey, we know they did, don't we. 
> 
> Thanks to all who tagged along; I hope you enjoyed it. :-)
> 
> 221Btls

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Naked One’s bravado](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031348) by [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama)




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